The Alchemologist
by Camudekyu
Summary: [A collection of Ed and Winry shorts.] She should be a pro. She's been studying one for years.
1. Shibboleth

**Al-che-my** _n._ **1 **the study of the decomposition and reconstruction of matter. **2 **the practice of decomposing and reconstructing matter.

**al-che-mist**_ n. _**1 **one who studies Alchemy. **2 **one who practices Alchemy.

**al-chem-o-lo-gy**_ n._ the study of alchemists.

**I. Shibboleth**

They sat with their backs to the wall, sacrificing the luxury of chairs for the luxury of hush, the draw of calm, the siren's song of a little peace to help them process the alcohol his superiors had spirited away for them. Somewhere across the building, the ballroom was pulsing softly with the morose rhythms of a wilting band and the ebbing and flowing of conversational tides.

He was holding her shoes. He was not exactly sure why, but there they were in his hands, in his lap. His money had bought those shoes, and he took a gently inebriated moment to enjoy the fact that he could afford such things. They were rather small and narrow, creamy white satin. The right shoes had a small, gray scuff on the toe.

Winry burped quietly. "'Scuse me," she muttered into the back of her fingers.

"Sure," he replied. "You want your shoes back?"

She shook her head slowly. "I don't think I should be walking anywhere right now."

Edward chuckled. "Can't hold your liquor?"

Winry turned a rather pouty frown on him. "I'd like to see you up and walking around right now." She belched again and put a hand to her stomach. Edward opted not to answer; she had a point.

A single, flesh thumb rubbed the satiny flank of the shoes in his lap. Experimentally, he stroked the other shoe with his metal thumb. As always, he felt nothing more than the muted sensation of pressure. He knew Winry was working on that. She had promised him greater sensitivity in the next model. It entailed another bout of neurosurgery to rewire him, but it was one step closer to normalcy.

Edward, when Winry had explained to him the basics of artificial sensory receptors, had been tempted to tell her that it did not matter. She could try all she wanted to make him feel real and whole, and she very well might achieve it. But it would never be the same.

She had seemed so enthusiastic about it, so he let her. It would be more money, but he had that in abundance. Of all the things that mattered to him, money was very low ranking.

Stealing a glance at her, Edward noted that she looked nice in her dress. Technically, it was his dress, having come from his wallet. But the thought of giving her gifts—dresses, shoes, wrenches, motor oil—made his heart fluttered momentarily in the strangest way. He liked it. A little. Not a lot. Not enough to tell her.

He thought about complimenting her. So he did. Awkwardly. Winry, already a shade rosier than usual from the champagne, blushed darker. She muttered succinctly her gratitude and looked down at her feet, bound in flesh colored stockings.

Winry rubbed her eye before she remembered that she was wearing make-up. She looked down at her fist now with black smudges across her knuckle. She almost laughed. If she had not seemed like a yokel before, she certainly must seem like one now.

Edward had introduced her to his comrades with something that Winry later recognized as reluctance. He would carry on with them, laughing and cracking jokes in jargon that Winry did not understand. He would discuss politics and matters that had nothing to do with her. Then he would turn around like he had just noticed her and grin toothily. With his metal arm, he would gesture to her and introduce her with her first name. He never uttered her last name even though his comrades often looked a little awkward when shaking her hand and welcoming her so informally. He did not tell her their names.

They had left the ballroom upon her request. The music was too loud. The conversation was making her head hurt. She could tell Edward did not really need an excuse even though he asked for one.

Then, she had fallen down. Like a drunk, she had stumbled as they left the ballroom in search of quieter company. Thankfully, they were already in the hall and out of view when she fell. Though she did not mention it, Winry had been grateful that no one else had seen, for Edward's sake.

Edward had picked her up off the floor, assuring her that he would have her dress cleaned if it needed it. She then gave him her shoes and swayed down the hall.

"I thought you were going to get the black one you were looking at," Edward commented. He slouched a little and crossed his ankles. Winry noted that his feet seemed further away than they used to. She was tempted to comment on his height before she remembered that he had said something.

"It wouldn't have matched your uniform."

He shrugged. "No one else was matching."

"Well, I didn't know that when I bought the dress. I don't know if I'm going to keep it anyway."

"Why not?" Edward asked, sitting forward slightly. He looked her in the eyes for what felt like the first time that entire night. Perhaps it was because he was not grinning at her. "It looks nice on you… I mean, you look nice in it. That is… it's a nice dress." He suddenly sat back and appeared very interested in his hands.

Winry smiled at him. "You already said that."

"So why don't you want to keep it?" he asked her shoes. "Don't you like it?"

"It's not that," she said. How, she wondered, would she explain this sensation, like the dress was a circular hole and she was a square peg? "I don't think it fits right."

Edward looked toward her again. He thought she filled the dress very well. In fact, he had been making a conscious effort not to appreciate too conspicuously how well she filled it. At least, he had made an effort not to let her notice him appreciating her. He opened his mouth to comment, but she continued.

"I mean, it fits fine… it just doesn't fit me."

Edward did not understand. Winry considered explaining it further, but she knew he could not see, he would not see. So she let him wonder.

"Anyway… I think I'm ready to leave. You can stay if you want to. I'm going back to the hotel."

She left without her shoes.


	2. Another Day, Another Siege: His Potatoes

A/N: Thanks for the reviews. I wasn't expecting any so soon. For now, bear with me.

**II. Another Day, Another Siege: His Potatoes**

My window was broken. Somehow, it didn't sit in the track right, so it didn't close all the way. There was a small sliver between the sill and the frame, and it was just large enough to let the chilly air in.

I thought about asking him to fix it. But then I remembered that he didn't like to fix things around the house. If it could be done by a handyman, he wouldn't lend his alchemy. I had thought he was being selfish, but it later occurred to me that he might have a decent reason. As he grew—as we grew--his reasons for doing things seemed to become more and more decent.

One day, it actually hit me that he was a good man. I wondered what that made me. I tried not to see myself in his wake, but instead on his sidelines, watching. But when I thought like that, I began to see everything from the sidelines, including myself, and that perspective just felt too powerless. So I watched myself in his wake, in my own wake—as if that were any more empowering. It was easier, though; it left me with less responsibility, feeling like a victim of all our imaginary encounters and his cruelties, amplified by my immaturity.

Whatever was left of me was left waiting. And I hated waiting.

He had come home on a Sunday. I had imagined his homecoming to be something poetic and rather romantic: I would open my door to see him standing the rain without a coat, or I would wake up one glorious morning to find him on my couch, nursing a malfunctioning arm, or he would arrive on my birthday in a flourish of flowers. But after my seventeenth birthday passed Edward-less, I gave up hope. I began to pray, instead, that someone would have the decency to send me a letter if he had died.

I had been in his garden, or what had once been his garden. Tax collectors had already repossessed the property, but they never stopped me. After Pinako's death, I had taken it upon myself to handle our finances differently; I opted to purchase less food and raise more, or more accurately, steal more. I tended to his garden and ate his potatoes. He would not miss them.

He had been a dark dot for a long time, and I wondered who would walk instead of take a carriage. Typically, my customers had the money for luxuries like taxis. If they could afford me, they could afford not to walk.

He became a dark smudge, clearly bipedal, tugged by the wind. As he drew closer, I could see a man in a brown coat. The sun reflected off his hair and his dark glasses. He did not have a suitcase that I could see; instead, he had a rucksack over his shoulder.

I could have dropped my basket and run out in the street to meet him. I could have flung myself at him, and he would have caught me awkwardly, patting my back and laughing uncomfortably at me. Because that was the way he was. He didn't hug back. He caught like he was in the way, like he was the victim of some guerilla attack.

Since my inclination to tackle him seemed absurdly inappropriate, I did what I always used to do. I yelled at him. Like somehow that was less absurd than hugging him like a normal person.

"That you, Win?" he called back.

It was him. It was me. "Yeah." I moved cautiously to the edge of the garden. He was still walking toward my house. He looked like he was about to pass me so I moved out in the middle of the road.

I was waiting for him again. Damn.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, holding my basket of his potatoes on my hip.

"That's a warm welcome," he said with a gentle sarcasm. "I thought you'd be happy to see me."

"Well, I'm a little surprised." I was amazed by my own restraint. I swayed somewhere between kissing him and beating him senseless, and it was an odd feeling—but not an alien one. "You look different."

He was taller. He was darker like he had been spending time in the sun. He looked as though he had not shaved in a week. I could have had his babies right there.

I expected him to be confident and brash and abrasive as always. Instead, he shrugged and shuffled his feet a little. "It's been a while."

"It has," I replied. I smiled because I was nervous. "You've gotten taller. I never thought it would happen!"

He frowned, and suddenly, I recognized the man to whom I was talking. "Well, it happened," he snapped. He took my basket, and I walked him back to my house.

"So what's broken this time?" I asked as I pushed open my front door. Again, I amazed myself. Where did all this self-control come from? From longweeks spent waiting, probably.

He looked rather sheepish. "What makes you think something is broken?"

"Call it women's intuition," I bit back. I took the basket from him and noticed his right arm hanging limply at his side.

The air was cold at night; I felt a fraction of the wind against my bare arms. I could ask him torepair it without alchemy. And I abruptly felt terribly helpless: one of the wimmyn, waiting for her man to come fix whatever is broken. _I'm going to bake a pie, _I thought. _And then hit up the morphine storage._

I could hear him moving around. He was downstairs, in a guest room big enough for two. I wondered what happened to Alphonse, but I did not dare ask. I knew the subject would not come up unless I brought it up, like all subjects of conversation with Edward. So, I decided I was safe unless I mentioned it.

"I suppose I should see to my guest," I said to my reflection. In the late hour, my view from my bedroom window had faded into a black mirror illuminated by the single candle flickering on my dresser.

"Another day, another siege," my reflection replied. "Another day, another siege."

The house felt very full. I swam down the stairs and forced my way into the kitchen, pushing back the thick presence of someone else. Perhaps it would not have felt so strange if it were not for the fact that this someone was male and what I thought to be the key to the closet where all my potential and maturity and life had been stowed since he had left.

That was stupid, and I knew that immediately when I found him in the kitchen, sitting on the counter, kicking his bare feet. _Bump tap bump tap _went his heels as they gently struck the cabinet.

He was eating an apple, allowing the juice to drip onto his left hand and down his forearm. His right arm, quite possibly the only reason he came to see me, was sitting on my work bench, awaiting the stroke of inspiration I had to have before I could continue working on it.

"You're making a mess," I said as I walked past him.

"No, I'm not," he replied plainly. I looked back at him with a glare that challenged him to be argumentative. I then realized that that only thing of which he was making a mess was himself. And that was not my problem, I told myself.

"Fine," I spat back lamely. I felt amazingly stupid. He was not trying to fight. Why was I? "Are you hungry?"

Edward looked from me to the apple and back again. "No," he said. He then added quickly, "If I'd known you were going to be making something-"

He thought I was offended. So I decided to be. "No, that's just fine. I guess I'll just cook for myself. If you didn't like my cooking, you could have just said so." I noted that I said _just_ a lot. What was it about _just_ that made me think I sounded victimized? I sounded like a child. And I could tell that Edward did not like it.

"I don't have anything against your cooking," he replied, slipping off the counter and dropping the apple core into the wastebasket. "Not everything is an attack on you." With that, he left the kitchen.

I felt like an ass. I winced and looked at the floor, berating myself. I was reminded once more that the only thing about Edward that had not changed was his garden, his potatoes.

"Hey, Ed," I called, still watching the floor.

His two-toned footfalls stopped in the hall.

Should I apologize? Yes, I should. Did I? No. "The window in my bedroom…" I began. "Uh, could I ask you a favor?"

I think he heard the apology in my voice even if I did not say it. "It's gonna cost you, Win," he called back.

I laughed. "I'm not giving you a discount if that's what you're suggesting."

His chuckle drifted down the hall into the kitchen like a soft, bitter aroma. "What do you need?"

The prospects of dinner abandoned, I hurried to the mouth of the hall. With both hands on the door frame, I leaned forward slightly. "The window in my bedroom isn't closing right. You don't have to transmute anything, but… I don't know… I couldn't get the stupid thing to work right… maybe you could try?" I could have babbled on all night. He was watching me; I could have babbled on for the next week.

"Good thing I'm around," he replied. "Who else would be doing your menial tasks if I weren't here?"

"Fullmetal Alchemist," I joked, shaking my head. "Reduced to domestic handyman. How the mighty have fallen,"

Edward did not seem to think that was funny. He still smiled, thought, probably to keep me from feeling uncomfortable. I thought that was uncharacteristically magnanimous of him.

"How long has it been, Ed?" I asked as I hurried down the hall to join him. Together, we walked toward my bedroom. I could feel myself beginning to perspire.

He shrugged. "Two years?" he said. "Almost three now, probably. Why?" He opened the door for me. I had not realized that I had closed it. I walked in and he followed, leaving the door ajar at his back.

"I don't know. It's this one right here." I pointed to the window at the foot of my bed. I sat down in the chair at my desk and pretended that the bed was not there. "You've changed."

He tossed me a glance before putting his hand to the pane and pushing up. It would not budge. He pushed again. "This would be easier with two hands, you know."

I was actually relieved that he chose to overlook my last comment. Because I knew _I_ had not changed at all. I guess he saw that and knew that I saw it, too. I felt like the blushing, bumbling fifteen-year-old who had seen him last. And here he was, a grown person who ate whenever he felt like it and still needed to shave.

I pouted. "You can't rush genius, buddy." I crossed my arms over my chest.

Edward laughed and gave the window another push. "I think you've really broken it."

"It's not like I did it on purpose," I said as I stood up. "If you can't fix it, I'll just have to call Charlie."

"Charlie?" Edward asked, stepping away from the window.

"Yeah, my real handyman. I do maintenance on his foot in trade for little fix it jobs."

"Oh," Edward glanced toward the door before looking back at me. "Whatever." He shrugged.

As he brushed past me, leaving the room, I almost clapped my hands and giggled. Immediately, I felt like a fool, but I could not deny the girlish glee. He had started when I mentioned another man. Then, he had gotten defensive.

That as more like Ed, more like my Ed, more like the Ed I wanted him to be, the one that I made up in the four years—he had miscounted—of his absence.

* * *

He complained of pain in his shoulder, in his flesh. I wondered what he wanted me to do about it. Not my problem; his flesh was not my department. I was tempted to tell him that until I realized he probably would not complain of pain unless it was serious.

I had him sit at my work bench, on a chair he had turned backwards before seating himself. He leaned forward and rested his chin on the back of the chair as I gingerly disassembled the plating around his shoulder socket. I moved my hands very slowly and deliberately, using only my most precise tools. Soon, the quarter of the table I had allotted for the project was covered in irregularly shaped steel plates and screws carefully placed around the plate according to their positions in his shoulder.

I had not seen the skin below the plating in years, and something about this encounter seemed terribly intimate to me. Edward, on the other hand, slumped casually, watching me work. He had, I found, developed a strange sort of default expression to which his face retreated when he was not thinking about it. He looked very relaxed, which was something I had not witnessed since before his mother's death. For all of his comfort, he still made me twitch. The expression he had adopted, probably an unknown defense mechanism picked up and transformed into habit over the years, looked confident without being arrogant and contented without being smug. He also looked like he could read my thoughts, like he knew something that gave him some kind of advantage over me. I was certain he did not mean to look that way, but I still could not make eye contact with him.

"Hmm," I said, trying to sound professional. I had removed the last plate. Now I was truly out of my territory. All his metal parts, the parts unknowingly infused with _me_, looked to be in perfect condition. I assume he had been taking care of it since I removed his arm a week ago.

But that pain was not in the metal. It was in his flesh.

Not my problem… as much as I wanted it to be. He was expecting me to think it was. But the only reason I did not wish it to be my problem was because I couldn't solve it. I didn't want to be anything to Edward if not perfect.

Perhaps that was why I always made such and ass of myself around him.

"What's your diagnosis, doctor?" he asked, watching me trying not to watch him.

How did he always look so damn nonchalant? He was shirtless and oblivious as always. I could have slapped him… and then had his babies again.

"I think you're really broken it," I said. His eyes narrowed.

"It's not like I did it on purpose," he retorted.

I smiled but decided he would probably appreciate my focus. I examined his shoulder closer. His skin around the socket was marred and puckered with scars. It always used to make me wince all those lifetimes ago before he had been wired and upgraded—or downgraded depending on your perspective. I was no doctor; I did not handle blood and guts very well, so when Alphonse, in that massive suit of armor, carried a butchered little boy into the entrance of my house, I had almost fainted. The few people on whom I had worked had been missing parts of years; they were nothing but healed stumps. They did not ooze or drip. No blood and guts, just steel and motor oil. I could handle steel and motor oil.

I did not wince anymore. After seeing the ruddy viscosity of his blood and the shiny drip of his frayed muscles, the yellowy bands of his ligaments and the white stone of his bones, scars and ragged edges were nothing.

The skin around the socket was swollen and pulling away from the metal. It was not supposed to look like that. I had expected atrophy, but strangely, there was little. He, unlike many of my other customers, continued to use his body as though nothing had changed. I remember that this was Edward, and he would probably not allow any event to me more traumatic than any other. They were all events to him. The only difference I could discern were the varying amounts of guilt he felt for everything that went on around him.

"It looks irritated," I said. I wished had the medical lingo to sound like I knew what I was doing.

"I figured," he replied, glancing at his maimed shoulder. He cocked his head to the side slightly. "What should I do about it?"

_Stop looking at me that way._ "I guess I could put some stuff on it."

"Stuff?" he asked as I turned away and ducked under my work bench. He leaned around the back of the chair to watch me.

"Yeah, stuff." I was on my hands and knees, pushing old blue prints and out dated tools out of my way. I knew I had a first aid kit under there somewhere, but I had apparently hidden it very well.

"Uh… Win?"

"Hang on," I snapped. "I'm looking for it."

When I came back up for air, I had the red tin box in my hands. I set it down a little too loudly on the table and popped it open. "It's this ointment stuff. Ah ha!" I declared triumphantly as I pulled the tube out.

"What's the expiration date on that thing?" Edward asked, his nose wrinkled slightly.

I checked the underside of the tube and decided not to tell him. "It's fine," I replied quickly before unscrewing the cap and squeezing a dollop onto my fingers. "Tell me if this hurts."

"Is it gonna hurt?" Edward asked, sitting back.

I did not know, so I shrugged and tried to look confident. It was not like I could do anything if it did hurt him. "Hold still," I commanded. With my free hand—I tried not to feel guilty for having one—I pulled him forward and began rubbing the cream in circles into his skin.

I felt him jerk slightly. "That hurts," he informed me.

"Too bad," I said as I continued to massage in the ointment.

"What?" he jerked away harder, but I held tight. "What kind of doctor are you?"

"I'm not a doctor," I replied. "I'm a mechanic. You know that."

"Ow! Winry!" He snatched himself back and gently touched his hand to the socket. "I've met assassins gentler than you."

I had not intended to hurt him. Because I had, I got angry, and since it was easier, I decided to be angry with him. "And I've met kittens with a higher tolerance for pain." I wiped my hand on my pant leg and left the room.

I went out onto the front porch where the midday sun was beginning to lose the battle against dusk. It looked like it was going to be another cloudy night, so I cried. It seemed like a good enough reason to cry. Not that I was upset that I had inflicted pain on him. Not that I cried because I was an idiot.


	3. Things Now Dead

A/N: thanks. You make me all warm and fuzzy.

**III. Things Now Dead**

He has a fever again. That does not usually happen. Perhaps it is because he is so young.

He is sweating, Winry notes. So she places a cool cloth on his brow as though it might help.

He is twitching and growling in his sleep.

She is holding a vigil over him for all the things in him that are now dead. An arm. A leg. A childhood—but that was never really alive in the first place.

But those things are not dead, Winry tells herself. They are merely changed, replaced with metal replicas.

"Good as new," she lies.


	4. Another Day, Another Siege: What He Drop

A/N: Thanks for the reviews. Try the thing with the cat. You'll be amazed.

**IV. Another Day, Another Siege: What He Dropped**

"You're making me nervous," I said.

"You're making me more nervous," he replied simply, trying not to move his jaw too much.

"Well, it's not helping. If you would just sit still…" I dipped the razor into the basin on the counter.

Edward watched me rather warily. "What do you think I've been doing this whole time?"

"Making me nervous. Now quit complaining; I'm almost done." He sighed as though I were inconveniencing him. "Would you relax?" I snapped.

"Easier said than done, Win. You're holding a straight razor to my throat."

"I'm holding it to your face. There's a difference."

I had decided that morning, of all the things that were eating away at me, somehow Edward's scruffy caveman look was the worst. In his defense, I still had not finished the repairs on his arm, and I only had temporary replacement legs ready. I had offered to put a leg in the socket, but Edward had not thought that was a very good idea. I had been trying to make him laugh, and it had almost worked.

When I complained, he said he could not shave with his left hand.

"I thought you were ambidextrous," I said.

"I can do a lot of things with my left hand, but dragging sharp objects over my skin is usually reserved for my right."

"What's the point of having two dominant hands, then?"

He said he only had one hand at the moment, dominant or otherwise, and it was not going to be doing any shaving any time soon. So I, acting as though I were making some great sacrifice, offered to help him. I pretended I was doing him a favor, like I was not near swooning when he grudgingly agreed.

My giddiness quickly vanished, however, when he flipped out a razor blade from his bag and plopped it down in my hand. _Oh, right, _I thought. _This requires blades, doesn't it?_

It probably would have been easier if I had allowed myself to stand between his knees. I had him sitting on the bathroom counter, his single hand resting in his lap. He did not sprawl like he used to. I remembered Edward having the remarkable ability to take up a great deal of space when he wanted to. He was like a cat: you never knew how far they stretched until you picked them up by their front quarters, and suddenly you had twice the feline you thought you had. No, he was more contained now. It could have been because he was so obviously uncomfortable, but I had a feeling that this was just how he was now; it was another little piece of Edward that he had dropped somewhere in his travels and had not bothered to pick back up.

I stood to his left and scraped off the last smear of shaving cream. I didn't notice that he was holding his breath—I don't think he did either—until that last pass when he let out a long rush of air.

I tossed him a towel. "I don't see what you're so tense about," I said, so relieved my hands were shaking. "You're not bleeding… badly."

Ed slid off the counter and walked around me to eye himself in the mirror. "Hey, would you look at that. I still have my face!" He ran his hand over his chin. "Not bad, Win." He elbowed me gently before slipping out of the bathroom to get dressed.

The gesture was meant to be playful, I'm sure. I tried not to give it weight, but I did anyway. Silly me.

I realized that, for all the things he had dropped—and I knew I had only seen a fraction of them so far—he had picked up many more. He never used to touch me. He never used to call me _Win._


	5. Solidarity in the Bathtub

A/N: I said _squeee_ for the first time in my life. I found out about Conqueror of Shambala. I felt like such a fangirl. Thanks for the reviews. By the way, Henrika, if you could possibly email me specific errors, I would be very grateful.

**V. Solidarity in the Bathtub**

You want to hug him when he looks like that. You want to throw yours arms around him and cry for him because he seems to adamantly unwilling to cry for himself. Instead, he growls and yelps and jerks away from you.

He has never seemed so helpless before, and he has also never seemed so stubborn.

"You need to rest," you repeat when you see him hobbling into the kitchen, leaning his good shoulder against the wall.

"I need to heal," he snaps. "There's a difference."

You threaten to remove his limbs if he won't be still. He refused again, so you conspire with his brother; you sneak into his room and take them off while he sleeps off the morphine. In the morning, he repaints the room with his colorful language. He calls you every foul name there is, pushes every button you have—he knows them all—until your grandmother storms in and slaps him.

A month passes, and you ask his brother to bring him into the operating room. He won't look at you, but you weren't really expecting him to. You ask him questions about how his is feeling, and he makes a point to be monosyllabic.

"I think it's time you started working with the automail," you say.

"About damn time," he mutters.

Before you can install everything though, you have to ready the sockets. You have told him to clean the sockets every day, and he has, but there is still dried blood deep in the grooves. The warning you give him sounds strong and resolved, but your hands shake when you put on your gloves and ready a wet towel.

Tentatively, you push the towel into his shoulder socket first.

You ask, "Does it hurt?"

He shrugs, and you think that means that it does but he doesn't want to admit it. So you move very carefully, very lightly and slowly. When your fingers finally hit something hard, you begin to rub at it gently. He presses his mouth shut.

"I'm sorry," you say. He shakes his head and watches his foot.

After dunking the towel in a basin of water, you begin working again. You pass the cloth over something jagged against the smooth metal, and he twitches. Placing the towel down, you gently slide you fingers into the socket to palpate the spur.

He groans and drops his head. You see a blush spread over his face and down his neck.

Worrying for him, you move more softly. Your fingers find the spur, and you carefully fish it out. It is a bone fragment. You hope he doesn't think you were careless in the initial operation, but when you look up, he is still watching his foot. He hasn't seemed to notice you or his bones.

When you finish on his shoulder, you can hear him whimpering through his teeth. You work quickly on his leg. He has his hand curled into the upholstery of his seat; his knuckles are white.

"Hurry up," he growls, and you nod. The faster you work, the ruddier he becomes until you fear he might faint. Gritting your teeth, you pull the cloth from the socket and declare that you are done. He breathes deeply.

Your grandmother comes in so that you can install both arm and leg at the same time. "Get it over with," he says, still focusing on his foot. You exchange a glance with your grandmother, and you both cringe when he cries out in pain.

* * *

He does no want to do his exercises where you hold him and tell him to flex and extend his joints against your resistance. You think maybe he doesn't want you touching him, so you ask his brother to help. You take turns with his brother until you feel almost confident that it is safe for you patient to walk. 

He moves like an animate doll, like he is learning how to move all over again. The automail is heavy, too heavy, you know, for an eleven-year-old boy. But you let him try anyway. Some days he can lift his leg; some days he can't. Some days he can feed himself with his right hand; some days he can't. The inconsistency frustrates him, and when you try to explain to him that is only to be expected, he gets angry with you. He blames you, of course, because it is easier than blaming himself. You let him. He already blames himself for enough, you reason.

* * *

You know he is pushing himself too hard when you have to wash the blood out of his sheets, when you find his pant leg and sleeve darkened and flaking. He won't quit, though. 

Your grandmother talks to him. He ignores her. She scolds him. He yells at her. She washes her hands of him. He washes his back.

"You're the worst patient I've ever had," you say when you find him on the front porch, nursing a glass of apple juice.

"You're all holding me back," he replies, for once without anger. He sounds rather resigned, and that scares you.

"We have a choice between letting you work yourself to death or holding you back because we care and he know what's right."

"It shouldn't be your choice."

"Well, it is. And there's nothing you can do about it." You get up and go inside alone.

* * *

When he falls, he gets flustered and embarrassed and angry at you for witnessing it. When he drops things because he is shaking, he won't speak to you as you clean it up. You reassure him. He doesn't care, but he doesn't even bother telling you that anymore.

* * *

One morning, you find him in the bathtub in his underwear. The tub is empty, and his is dry. You stand in the doorway for a moment, watching and wondering and worrying. He looks up like he has just noticed you. His eyes are bloodshot. 

"I just realized something," he says to you.

"What?" you ask, surprised by how you whisper.

He looks at his shiny new hand and says, "Things are never going to be the same."

* * *

As time passes, he becomes more graceful about his clumsiness. He seems to get used to being awkward and unsteady, and he begins to allow himself to be a student. You offer to help him down the stairs; he accepts and laughs when he misses the last step and you have to catch him. The sound surprises you so much that you almost drop him. 

He begins to join you on your walks to the mailbox. He also accompanies his brother in the yard even if he can't train with him. He lets you test his resistance and flexibility without argument; he still blushes when you touch him, though. You blush back, and you think, _Equivalent exchange in action.

* * *

_

His hair is getting long, you notice over dinner. To your horror, he catches you staring and makes an announcement of it by asking, "Do I have something on my face?"

His brother laughs. Your grandmother shakes her head and tucks into her mashed potatoes. You blush and look away very quickly.

"Your hair," you say lamely. "I just noticed how long it is."

He grins and shakes his head, letting it fall into his eyes. When you look back, his face is a golden curtain with a toothy smile poking out underneath. "I kinda like it," he says.

"Me, too!" his brother concedes brightly.

The next morning, you teach him how to braid. You let him practice on you. When he is still uncertain with his right hand and pulls your hair, he feels bad about it and says he should stop before he rips it out. You smile as you are reminded why you put up with him—a question you have been considering lately. You tell him he can practice more when he feels like it, and you braid his hair for him.

"It makes you look older," you say, not sounding very excited for him

He frowns at his reflection. You take a moment to realize that he is mimicking you. With an awkward laugh, you give his braid a tug and dart away.

* * *

One Wednesday morning, the time you typically set aside for a trip to the market, you hear your name being called. There is no urgency in the tone, but you run down the hall anyway. Sliding over the floorboards, you come to a halt in the doorway to the room he shared with his brother. You ask what is wrong breathlessly. He acts as though he has not noticed you while his brother laughs. 

"Brother needs some help," explains a voice from somewhere within a suit of armor. You're still not used to it, and you doubt you ever will be. You look to the brother in question. He has his back turned away slightly, his hands fiddling with the open front of his shirt.

"What is it?"

"It's these stupid buttons," he says, turning toward you reluctantly. "I still don't have the dexterity to handle them yet."

He had taught you what _dexterity_ meant a week before, and you're proud of yourself for remembering. You take a moment to laugh at his expense and then take another moment to marvel at the fact that he lets you. He glares at you but still waits for you to help him

"Isn't this what younger brothers are for?" you ask as you take the bottom button and eye in your fingers.

His brother huffs and whines, "My hands are too big. Plus, I can't feel anything."

You laugh. "I was just playing." Turning back to your work, you ask, "What's the occasion?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Huh?"

"When was the last time you didn't just wander around the house in your underwear?" you ask, knowing it will make him blush. He rewards you, and you laugh at him.

"I thought I'd walk with you today," he says rather sheepishly, looking out the window.

"To the market?" you ask incredulously. He nods. "It's a long walk."

He flashes you a pearly grin. "Don't expect me to empathize when you start complaining that your feet hurt."

"Ha!" you bark. "Maybe Al should come along. I'm not gonna be able to carry you _and_ the groceries."

He scowls and you finish buttoning his shirt. You then roll up his sleeves into very neat, even cuffs. He surreptitiously rolls them back down. You are tempted to argue with him until you see him gingerly smoothing the sleeve down his right arm.

* * *

You chat casually and pause periodically as you walk, feeling more at home with him than you have felt in almost a year. He carries your shopping basket for you in his right hand, absently lifting and lowering it at his side. You are happy to see him adjusting. 

"You're not shaking anymore," you say, venturing into sensitive territory.

"I'm getting used to it."

"I'm glad," you say. "I didn't know… I mean, I was afraid that… well…"

"Afraid I'd never get the hang of it?" he finishes for you. You nod. "Yeah… me, too."

And you lapse into a companionable silence. Maybe, you think, you understand each other better without the words.

You want to slip you hand into his. But you don't.

The trip there goes well. He doesn't seem winded, and he doesn't complain. You think maybe it was a good idea that he came with you; you certainly are enjoying his company. You quickly change you mind, however, when the two of you reach the marketplace.

The road narrows. You sniff the air, taking in the aroma of the rotisserie by the entrance. From your pocket, you pull out the list your grandmother gave you, and with your companion in tow, you begin weaving through the stands and other patrons.

He begins to ask you a question when you hear your names being called. Both you and he look up to see a red haired girl waving and jogging closer.

"Hey, Winry," she says quickly and then promptly ignores you. "Edward, where had you _been_?"

She sounds indignant. This makes you angry at first, and then it makes you furious. It seems somehow diminishing of what he has endured that she feels she is important enough to be upset with him for being away. She had no idea. Suddenly, you want to leave the market, take him away from people who would not understand.

"Jacob and I were wondering what happened to you. And Al, too. When did you get back?"

He blushes from all the attention. "Uh, we've been back for a little while now," he says.

"Well, why didn't you stop by? I've missed you!"

He blushes deeper. "He's been busy," you say quickly and rather territorially.

The girl's younger brother, Jacob, trots up. Before the boy can even say hello, his eyes grow wide. "What happened to your hand?" the boy cries, pointing.

There is a flash of sunlight off metal as he slides his automail hand into his pocket. "Nothing," he says. You can tell he's looking around for an exit and all he sees are staring faces, so you provide him and escape. You tell them you have shopping to do before taking him by the arm and pulling him away.

The moment you are away from Jacob and the girl, you let go of him. You shop quickly and silently for his sake.

Once home, he says he's going to take a nap. He doesn't come out of his room for the rest of the day and into the night. After dinner, you and his brother sneak in to check on him. He is motionless and sound asleep.

"Must have worn him out," he brother whispers to you. You nod and whisper back a good night.

Later that night, after you can't get to sleep, you slip out of you room and into the bathroom. In the dark, you lower yourself into the empty bathtub. It is cold against your legs, and without the buoyancy provided by water, the tub holds your neck and back at a rather uncomfortable angle.

To the tiles that you can barely see, you murmur. "I'm never going to be the same." When that doesn't feel right, you amend. "We're never going to be the same."

* * *

The day they leave, the morning you find them gone and their home burned to the ground, you make breakfast: pancakes with brown sugar, because you know he loves those. Alone at the kitchen table, you chew your lonely flapjacks without syrup. You're done crying, you decide. You have work to do, and that is much more important that worrying about him and his brother. 

You get up from the table and resolve to dive into the steel; you have a customer coming in less than an hour, and that is certainly more important than…

You realize that, in the grand scheme of things, you are not that important—then you wonder when his opinion became the grand scheme of things. You say it to yourself again, that you are not that important to him. But he is off to do great things, to fix his life and the life of his brother, and if you know him, he will probably end up fixing a lot of other people along the way.

He _is_ important. _He_ will do important things.

You kick a chair as you walk by and let it clatter to the floor. You leave it there.

* * *

In the days that pass, you begin to understand better. You say with conviction that you will never be the same; it cements and holds. You say it again and again. You sit beside the bathtub and wonder how they are doing; you try not to think of him independently anymore, but you catch yourself doing it anyway. 

You think you know how it must have felt to be him, to be in an altered body, to not know how to move, to be so frustrated with you own inadequacy that all you can do it sit and marvel at the oppressive stagnancy of it all. You're lonely. You remember him shaking and twitching, him stumbling and falling and getting so angry with himself. You remember the looks people gave him in the market, the murmurs of _grotesque _and _malformed_, the rampant disapproval.

You wish you could roll the sleeves down over you heart and pretend like nothing is wrong, but you can't. You know that now when you still pause and hope at the sight of every blonde braid, the sound of every metal _creeek_, the flash of every red coat—when you stop and look twice every time you pass the bathroom.


	6. The Gods of War and Glory

A/N: What is this? I have no idea. Blame my muse.

**VI. The Gods of War and Glory**

The clock had been striking Christmas for the last two hours, and still a small group lingered at the Eve party. Needless to say, Christmas was feeling rather jealous that Eve was still getting points.

It had not been much of party. Farman, Fury, Havoc, Ross had poked her head in but had the decency to leave before things became embarrassing. It was now very late, or very early, and most of the party goers had become party leavers. A sleeping Alicia Hughes was curled against her mother, who was sitting by the door. Gracia had been tapping her foot, but that was nearly thirty minutes ago. Lisa Hawkeye had now taken up Mrs. Hughes' post and was tapping away, her arms crossed over her chest as she stood by the door. Had she been feeling a little more insubordinate, she would have seized her superior by the collar and dragged him home, but it was, after all, the season of giving. And he looked like he was enjoying himself, which was just rare enough for her to let it slide.

Major Maes Hughes sat on a table in the break room, kicking his feet lazily. To his left, mimicking him unconsciously, was Roy Mustang, and leaning against a nearby counter top was Lieutenant Havoc, having lingered past the others with the excuse of driving Colonel Mustang home. However, he remained even after the prospect of driving was out of the question.

Lounging darkly on a bench against the wall, close enough to the raucous to be part of the party but far enough away to not be part of the raucous, was Edward Elric; meaning, the bench was occupied by Edward and his disproportionate shadow, a large suit of armor. Tucked on the bench next to elder Elric was a dozing young woman who was trying not to lean on Edward's shoulder. It had been made very clear back before it was Christmas that, for the record, this young woman was not Edward's girlfriend. _Not._ Not not not.

The life of the party, it seemed, was sitting on the counter top, observing the merriment detachedly, his infectious amber smile having caught on very quickly. Jack Daniels was his name, and he was pleased to see that the damage had been done. Thanks to him, everyone was having a grand old time… well, almost everyone.

At first, the cider had been gingerly spiked, but as the hours wore on, rations became less ginger and more liberal. Soon, the cider was forgotten.

"Don't you think you kids should be heading home?" Hughes asked of the collective Edward Elric, trying his hardest not to slur his words.

Edward belched. "Gimme a minute," he muttered. He then tossed his arm over the back of the bench and slumped forward.

"Hmm," Hughes murmured. "Maybe we shouldn't'a let him drink."

Mustang shrugged. "Let this be a learning experience for you, Fullmetal." He waved a finger in Edward's direction. "Drinking…" he paused rather dramatically. "Makes you drunk." Mustang nodded, pleased with his advice.

Havoc snorted while he was downing the last of his drink and began to cough.

"Thanks," muttered Edward.

"Thanks _what?_" Mustang turned an ear to the boy and waited.

Edward belched again. "I think I'm gonna be sick." He flopped to the side and leaned his head against Winry's shoulder. She _eeped_ and suddenly seemed very awake.

"Exactly," replied Mustang, sounding satisfied.

From the door, a very sharp clearing of the throat was heard. All half-lidded eyes drifted toward the source: two rather irate looking women. Which one had cleared her throat was unclear.

"Sir," Hawkeye began tightly. "Don't you think you've had enough?"

"Ha ha! Perhaps by _your_ meager standards!"

"Do you ever wish," Hughes interrupted, looking down into his glass wistfully. "Do you ever wish you were an alchemist?"

Mustang paused. His expression softened. He now appeared philosophical, a phenomenon only occurring when alcohol was involved. "Yeah."

"Honey." Gracia stood up and came to stand next to her husband. The term of endearment lacked any endearment. "This is ridiculous. We need to go home _now._"

Mustang began to laugh. "No, no, no," he said, interrupting no one in particular. "I've got your name, Maes." He paused to laugh before clapping his companion on the shoulder. "You're the Sleeping on the Couch Alchemist."

Hughes smirked. "It's better than the Sleeping Alone Anyway Alchemist." He elbowed Mustang who proceeded to frown and mellow considerably. Havoc guffawed.

"Brother," a small voice said from within the large suit of armor by the wall. "I want to go, too."

"Gimme a minute," was Edward's reply. He remained slouched against Winry.

"Maes," Gracia growled, successfully straightening her husband's posture. "_Now_."

"Gimme a minute," Edward repeated.

"I suppose," Hughes conceded. "But one last toast!" He raised his nearly empty glass. Mustang and Havoc joined him. Edward managed to lift his glass a few inches above his knee. Hughes cleared his throat. "To the gods of War and Glory that have brought us this far!" he declared triumphantly.

Mustang scoffed. "The god of War," he grumbled. "Brilliant Christmas toast, Maes. Why don't we toast the god of Rape while we're at it?"

"To the god of Rape!" cried Havoc, his eye very nearly closed. He began to laugh. "To the god of Plundering! Mer' Christmas!" He threw back his drink and promptly refilled it.

"To the god of Sacking!" chimed Hughes.

"The god of _Ran_sacking!" Havoc added.

"To the god of Human Suffering!"

"To the god of Pillaging!"

"That's enough Maes. You've made your toast," interjected Gracia.

Mustang seemed to brighten in the light of this new game. "To the god of Money Laundering."

Havoc laughed and offered, "To the god of Public Indecency!"

"To the god of Public Drunkenness!" cried Hughes.

Hawkeye rubbed her eyes and forehead, where a headache was blooming with holiday joy.

Mustang thought for a moment, "To the god of Jay Walking!"

"To the god of Overdue Library Books," said Hughes, earning unimpressed expression from both Mustang and Havoc.

"Please," Mustang muttered. "Library books?"

Hughes shrugged. "You do better."

Again, Mustang pondered. His eyes landed on the Elric brothers, and he raised his glass with renewed vigor. "To the god of Childhood Trauma!"

"To the god of Adulthood Trauma!" exclaimed Havoc.

"To the god of Untimely Death!"

"The god of Death in General!"

"The god of War!"

"We already said that one."

"Oh, right. To the god of Excessive Drinking!"

"The god of Vice!"

"The god of Lust!"

"The god of Brothels!"

"MAES!"

"To Poverty!"

"To Pestilence!"

"To Obloquy!"

"To the god of Idiots and Hangovers," muttered Hawkeye.

Mustang waved his glass at her. "That's the spirit!" He turned to the children. "Fullmetal. Give us a toast," he commanded.

Edward looked up, his eyes drifting in different directions. He wavered for a moment before lifting his glass in the direction of his superiors. "Happy birthday, Jesus," he slurred.

"Happy birthday, Jesus!" chorused the others. There was the chiming sound of glasses clinking together followed by a long, collective swig. Winry slipped the glass out of Edward's hand before he could pour it down the front of his shirt.

"Wait a second," Hughes said, looking off for a moment as though trying to recall something. "I'm Jewish."

Mustang was pushed. Hughes was dragged. Edward was carried. Havoc… found his own was home. In the yellow light of the streetlamps, they all parted ways with lazy goodbyes and weary well wishes and silent promises to never mention the gods of War and Glory again.

Winry was not allowed into the barracks, so she and Alphonse carried Edward as far as she could go. They stopped at the entrance to the wing and swapped the inebriated alchemist over to his brother.

"Good night, Al… Ed," Winry said. Her crestfallen cadence was masked very well by her exhaustion, and she was grateful.

"Good night, Winry," Alphonse replied, shifting his brother slightly. He had to lean forward awkwardly to handle the boy.

"G'night, Winry," Edward muttered.

"I'll see you guys tomorrow," she offered.

Edward corrected her. "Later t'day."

Winry smiled. "Right, later today. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas."

Walking away, Winry noticed that she still had on Edward's coat. From one pool of lamplight to another, she hurried through the sleepy streets of East City. Winry decided, as she trudged back to her hotel, that Christmas was just another day, a span of twenty-four hours like any other. There was no reason to feel disappointed, no reason at all.  
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Another A/N: (Sorry. I hate these things, too.) The last chapter was a bit of an experiment. If anyone has feedback on it, I would love to hear it.


	7. Another Day, Another Siege: Dissection

A/N: I feel all warm and squishy from the reviews... well, that or I wet myself again. To Terrasina Dragonwagon for having the most fun to pronounce pen name ever.

**VII. Another Day, Another Siege: Dissection**

He was shadow boxing in the yard. I would have thought one-armed boxing rather humorous if I weren't already entirely occupied with feeling guilty. And somehow, he made one-armed boxing really attractive—or maybe I did.

He landed a high kick in the face of someone I couldn't see with his left leg, my leg. When he returned to a neutral stance, he faltered and nearly fell. Once he recovered, he glared down at his right leg like it had betrayed him. I could see that his automail leg was shorter than his natural leg, if only by a fraction of an inch. It was enough to unbalance him, and I winced a little at the thought of him blaming his awkwardness on his leg when I was my leg's fault.

I saw him coming up on the porch, storming toward the front door with a deep frown on his face. I darted away from the window and busied myself with tidying up the front room and pretending like I had not been watching him.

I should have kept my mouth shut, but I didn't. "Have fun?" I asked, stacking newspapers.

"Time of my life," he replied succinctly. He brushed by without looking at me and moved up the stairs.

I started dinner—actually I continued dinner; I was reheating stew from the night before. By the time I was satisfied with it, Edward was thumping down the stairs, freshly showered and still pissed. He flopped into a chair at the table and brooded. I assumed he was waiting for me to serve him, so I ladled a serving into a bowl and passed it his way.

"Sorry to re-meal," I said, sitting down with my own bowl.

"It's fine," he said. I could tell that he didn't really give a damn about dinner. I thought was still angry about his blundered boxing, but the creeping sensation of impending reprimand had me figuratively inching toward the door. Of course, I deserved anything he had to sling at me. I knew that.

I smiled because I was scared and decided to fill the silence with myself. "You're starting to look scruffy again." It had been a few days since I had played barber.

"That happens," he muttered, stirring his stew. I thought he looked a little awkward handling the spoon with his left hand.

"If you need me to help you out again, I—" I began. I sounded like an idiot to myself; I can't imagine what he thought I sounded like.

He looked up from his stew. "What I really need you to do, Winry, is fix my damn arm." He cut me off firmly.

I sat back like he had pushed me. I blinked, too weighed down by the voice given to my culpability to actually put together a reply.

"I appreciate your hospitality, but I have things that I have to do now that I'm back."

I could tell that the last thing he wanted was an excuse, so I was quiet.

He watched me, undoubtedly expecting me to defend myself, to at least attempt to defend myself. When I didn't say anything, we sat for a wrung moment, just looking at each other. His gaze was so heavy, I could feel myself pressing backwards into my chair. I'm sure I looked pathetic.

His expression abruptly softened; something twisted sharply in my chest. He could tell I felt guilty about it.

"I know why you've not finished the work, Winry, and all I can do it apologize for that." I could feel him searching my eyes; I was probably a picture frame, with little adolescent me pressed up against the glass for his scrutiny. I always had been. "I had to go… all those times. I _had_ to go."

"I know," I said. "I understood that."

His shoulders dropped slightly. "Then why haven't you finished my arm yet?"

I thought that was insensitive of him. "Just because I understood doesn't mean I had to like it." My voice seemed a little harsh to me until it occurred to me that I was hurt. Damn it, I deserved to be harsh, didn't I? But he didn't really deserve to be on the receiving end. It wasn't his fault he had to leave. At least, in the past it hadn't been. But I didn't know what he needed to do now. I grew angrier when reminded once more that he never bothered to tell me anything.

"You're being selfish, Winry," he stated, looking away from me.

I stood up suddenly, knocking my chair down. "You're damn right, I'm being selfish, Edward! I've been waiting for four—yes, I'm being selfish! People do that when they're hurt!"

"Well, I didn't hurt you, so knock it off," he bit back. He remained seated like the sagacious adult he was. "We're not kids anymore, Winry. We haven't been for a very long time."

"And I'm _trying_ to catch up to you, old man! Give me some time, and I'm sure I'll be just as disillusioned and wise as you. Until then, I'm going to be selfish and hurt and… and _desperate_. So you can just wait for me."

God, those eyes tore me down so quickly. I could feel a hugely misplaced declaration of love hovering near my surface, but I shoved it away into the same compartment where I had been keeping my tears. I could let them both out, the tears and the love, when he wasn't around.

"Winry—"

"Good night, Edward," I said, significantly less inflated than I had been before. Whether he meant it or not, he sucked the life out of me. I guess I thought if I could just get him to notice me, to stay a little longer, I could get some of that life back. I would be able to catch up with him then, and maybe I'd be a little better at letting him go. He was leaving anyway.

I bent over and picked up my chair before leaving the kitchen, but I didn't go to bed. I didn't even go to my room. I cut a direct path to my workroom. At my bench, I flicked on the lamp and found his arm—my arm—strewn lifelessly in the center of the pool of yellow light. I began to disassemble it feverishly, like somehow tearing him apart would put my back together. Or maybe I was being dissected vicariously, and if he found me in the morning, open wide with labeled pins in me, he might be a little more empathetic. Either way, I spent the entire night working away, treading water in the wake of Edward like always.  
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I had a dream that we spooned on the sidewalk outside of central. People walked by like we weren't even there. Only one woman stopped, one that I recognized but could not name. She had blonde hair, darker than mine, twisted and bound back. She paused, looking down at us with a disdainful expression. She pulled a quarter out of her pocket and flicked it at me. "Get a real job, sweetheart," she said before walking on.

In the shifting, wavering space between dreaming and waking, the part where I always stopped and tried to retreat back into the dream, I felt my cheek resting against his metal arm. The sensation of his breath against the back of my neck faded away; his legs untwined themselves from mine and dissipated. When I opened my eyes, I was slumped over my work bench, face pressed to the partially disassembled clockwork of what stood in for a biceps brachii.

I sat up slowly and rubbed my face. I knew I had the angular imprint of the seams and bolts of the arm on my cheek. I scrubbed at my face even thought it wouldn't make a difference. From past experience, I knew those impressions only faded with time.

"That couldn't have been comfortable," a voice said from behind me.

He was quite possibly the last person I wanted to hear, but the sound of his insouciance filled me with so much relief. I felt the tense muscles in my neck and back slacken.

"Hazard of the job," I replied before a long yawn and an even longer stretch. My lower back popped loudly. Edward laughed. I heard him enter the room, and then he appeared in the right of my vision, leaning a hip against my work bench.

"Good morning, Ed," I said, watching him for a sign.

He skipped the pleasantries. "I thought we owed each other an apology."

I considered saying that I didn't owe him anything, but I realized that I knew better. "I agree," I replied, trying to sound diplomatic.

He smirked and let out a terse chuckle. He was laughed at me, I knew. But that was okay. "You _are_ being selfish, you know."

"And _you_ are being insensitive."

"You're being immature about the whole thing, too."

"Well, you're being old about it. I think we're even."

I was surprised by how calm he was being about it. He wasn't argumentative at all. In fact, he sounded like he was negotiating, like we could make a compromise on who was more to blame. I thought about asking him for what we were blaming each other, but that question had _so many_ answers, I thought it safer to leave that can tucked away in the pantry until the next time we locked horns. Of course, by that time, the can would probably be a tub, maybe even a vat, but negotiations seemed to be going so smoothly. I didn't want to ruin it.

"I'm being _old_?" he asked, cracking a grin.

"Yes," I replied. Feeling the tension begin to slip away, I risked an upturning of my nose. "You're being old."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm not sure what I can do about that one."

"Grow down, Ed. Act like the nineteen-year-old boy you are."

Edward laughed. "Close."

"What?" I asked.

"I'm twenty."

"Oh." I sounded a little disheartened.

"Oh, what?"

I looked to our arm on the table for a moment before meeting his gaze. "You _are_ old."

He pouted, and I thought, _Babies, anyone?_


	8. Proximity

A/N: Thanks Tobu. You make my day. This one is short and remarkably... squishy. Sorry.

**IIX. Proximity**

The wind rolls off the grass, gaining momentum as it plummets down the hills and stirring endorphins as it climbs back up. Could Wind giggle, she would. She is having a smashing good time, spending an early spring evening in Risemburg. She wishes she could live here until she remembers that she does. And it's a good life.

The slope of the hill leading up to the Rockbell front porch is just enough to curl the gust into one chilly, blustery fastball that the landscape pitches at the house's face. There is no better place to dry one's hair than the Rockbell front porch, Edward has found. But the best place to perch, with the wind broken just enough to be pleasant and the vista expansive enough to win over any seasoned porch connoisseur, is the second floor porch. Pinako calls it a "widow's porch," and Winry calls it a "Romeo porch." Edward does not care for dramatics; "porch" is good enough for him.

"What are you doing out here?" Winry asks as she slips outside, holding a sweater around her shoulders.

_Mourning my dead husband while being serenaded in iambic pentameter,_ Edward thinks. "Enjoying the view," he replies.

"It's a little late, don't you think? There isn't much of view without light."

"Not that view. You don't see stars like this in East City," explains Edward. He gestures to the sky. "With the street lamps and all."

"Oh," Winry says. Not sure of what else to do, she lowers herself to the boards next to Edward. He has his legs dangling through the posts of the railing. She mimics him. "I don't really notice them anymore."

Still looking up, Edward replies, "You can only really appreciate something with infrequent proximity; otherwise, you take it for granted."

"I guess," says Winry. She notes that Edward is in only his navy pajama pants. She shrugs out of her sweater and drapes it over his mismatched shoulders.

"What're you doing?" he asks, looking down at the gray sweater.

Winry smiles and looks upwards. "Just appreciating the stars."


	9. Another Day, Another Siege: What Has to

A/N: Thanks so much. **Chapter Warning: Edward uses the f-word. (dun dun _dun_.) Shield your eyes; you've been warned.**

**IX. Another Day, Another Siege: What Has to Be Enough**

He did the strangest things sometimes, even stranger to me now. He seemed slippery and just wriggly enough to always slide out of my hands when I thought I had some kind of grasp on him. I had given up trying to understand him when I was younger, but I guess the absence convinced me to try again. I was a little comforted to find at least that had not changed—I still had not idea why he did the things he did.

He made me take breaks to eat. I tried to explain all the reasons why I could not stop, all the while trying to sound totally selfless, or at least as selfless as he. It occurred to me later that skipping a few meals would not equate the sacrifices he had made. He seemed to humor me though. He was appreciative but still stood over my shoulder until I had finished.

As he took away my plate from lunch, I watched him rather closely. "Did you make that?" I asked. That was a stupid question. Who else would have made it?

He shrugged.

"You make a mean turkey sandwich."

"Thanks."

I didn't like him being that quiet. "What's wrong with you?" Only after I spat out the words did I realize just how inelegant I sounded. I blushed and looked back to the arm on my table.

"Nothing," he replied casually. "I figured you wouldn't want me distracting you while you're trying to work."

He had a point. I used to snap at him when he hung around, leaning over my shoulder to see what I was doing. So many times, I had pushed him out of the workroom, somehow convincing myself that my want to have him around was actually a misinterpretation of my frustration. I think I may have been working so quickly to see if he would actually stick around when I was done, like maybe if I did an exemplary job this time, he would be so impressed that he wouldn't jump the first train out. Anyway, it had become habit to shoo him away.

"I don't mind," I said, carefully adjusting the pulley system in the elbow. It made me feel better, telling him what I meant for once.

"Okay." He pulled up a chair to my work bench and promptly began pummeling me with questions about the arm: how it worked, its basic structure, how it attached to him. I couldn't help but wonder if he had been turning over all these questions all along but never had the… whatever he thought he needed to ask me.  
-  
-  
-

We ate the rest of last night's stew for dinner before I retreated back to work. By the time the sun lost its grip on the horizon and slipped down, I was breathing deeply, savoring the smell of a much-needed end to a much-needed task.

This was my least favorite part of the job. Along with the initial surgery, installation still made me question if I could do this for a living. Pinako had said she was used to it, but I don't think she was. There was something so deeply resonate about this kind of pain; it struck a chord in my heart, even after all those years. And the fact that it was Edward only made it more difficult. He took it like a champ, though.

It felt like old times, having him sit so tightly wound, twitching from the pressure of anticipation. Some people liked countdowns, but not Edward. I guess he could take it better it he was not expecting it.

I thought about telling him how grateful I was that he did not scream like the others. I had heard him cry in pain, yes, but it was different. He didn't scream like an animal. He clung to his humanity at those times more than any other, I think, because it was so easy to lose it then, and so many did.

I could hear the straining of the upholstery in his clenched fist, the whirring of pulleys and gears engaging, the growling in his throat.

I did not expect him to speak when he did.

"Fuck," he snarled. "I'm never gonna get used to this." There were beads of tears on his eyelashes.

"That makes two of us," I murmured. Unconsciously, I put a hand on his wrist though I knew he could barely feel it. He wouldn't be able to feel the texture of my skin or any warmth from my hand, but he could feel the pressure. And that would have to be enough.

He was breathing through clenched teeth. I breathed deeply for him, but I don't think he noticed. In my certainty that he was entirely oblivious of me, I was emboldened. Whatever inspired me to touch him any more than a casual, professional pat vanished almost as quickly as it had arrived, leaving me leaning forward, lips pressing to his cheek without the conviction that had pushed me to do it in the first place. I felt like I was suddenly in the middle of a large body of water without anything to keep me afloat. Still, I sat there for a moment, waiting for my mind to catch up with my actions.

_Holy crap,_ I thought. I blinked once, my eyelashes brushing his temple.

He was scruffy and warm. I could feel it against my lips. I was out of my territory again: he could most certainly feel me back.

Blushing furiously, I sat back and looked at my hands. He was looking at me. I could sense it. "You can sleep in here if you want to. If you need anything… uh… just yell. I'll hear you."

I got up and left before he could reply.


	10. Sturdy Ribbons

A/N: Sorry for the wait. Computer viruses. Moving. Work. Life. You know.**  
**

**X. Sturdy Ribbons**

So many memories were made here. Glimpses of moments glinted off the water; waves murmured words that had gathered in the back of her mind where she had once intended to sweep them under the rug laid over the cold linoleum of her childhood. In shifting, swaying instances, recollections ebbed and flowed, swelled at the edge of the water and then drifted back out. For once, though it ached like an old wound, Winry was grateful that she had not taken out the trash, the detritus of notions and anamnesis scattered around. Instead, she stooped and carefully picked up each one, held them tightly in her damp hands, pressed them to her chest.

This was a bittersweet, beautiful place for her, vilified and treasured at once. Edward was lounging in the shallows blissfully, ladling cold water onto the metal of his arm and leg to fight back the summer heat. Alphonse was reclined under a tree. The light from his eyes was dimmed, presumably from sleep. From their picnic basket, Winry fished out an apple and a pear and held them carefully as she stepped into the water.

Edward did not look back though Winry knew he heard her approaching.

"Which do you want?" Winry asked as she knelt in the mud next to him. Edward looked thoughtful for a moment before plucking the apple from her hand.

"Thanks," he said around a juicy mouthful.

"Sure," Winry replied.

Edward put his left hand behind him and leaned back, munching contentedly. "I'd forgotten how damn hot it got out here in the summer."

"You have no idea. It's only June." Winry quickly remembered that he did have an idea. He had a very good idea. He had lived there once. "It's doesn't get like this in East City?"

"Nowhere near. We don't start taking off our coats 'til May."

The conversation sounded asinine to both of them. The weather? They were discussing the weather? Winry felt like he was making small talk with a customer. She took a large bite from her pear, hoping that would incapacitate her mouth enough that she would stop babbling.

Edward scooped up a handful of water and dumped it over his right shoulder with a long sigh.

"Is it bad?" Winry heard herself ask.

He shrugged. "Sometimes. Most the time, no. Only in the extremes really."

"Hmm," Winry said. This was a complaint she had heard before, never from Edward, but from other clients. Edward did not talk to her about his pain. "They say pain is in the excess."

"Or the deficiency."

"The excessive deficiency," Winry corrected, raising her index finger as though to make a point. Edward chuckled.

"You can't have an excessive deficiency," he countered, giving her an unimpressed expression.

"Sure you can. You, for instance, have an excessive deficiency of hei—"

"Say it Winry, and you won't live to regret it," Edward growled, closing his fingers so tightly around the apple that it bruised.

Winry laughed out loud. "I swear, you have a complex, Ed. I was going to say limbs."

He glared at the water. "I have two left, thank you very much. That doesn't constitute—if there _were_ such a thing—an excessive deficiency."

This was much better, Winry thought. This banter was friendly and familiar, intimate enough to expose the sturdy ribbons that tied them together but not intimate enough to slacken them. Winry thought she could see their ties reflecting in the water.

Again, Edward splashed water over his shoulder. "It is hot as hell out here."

"It's not that bad," Winry said, just to be antagonistic.

"Are you kidding me?" Edward asked. "You could fry an egg on my freakin' forehead."

Winry guffawed in the most unfeminine of manners. "You're so dramatic. Fry an egg?"

He frowned. "I was being facetious, you ditz."

"What did you call me!" she snapped, ignoring the fact that she did not know what _facetious_ meant. Winry punched the water's surface, splashing them both.

Edward grinned. "A _ditz_. I can say it again if you want."

"I'd be nicer if I were you," growled Winry, chucking her pear out into the lake.

"And why is that?"

"I'll throw you into the middle of the pond and you'll sink right to the bottom. I wouldn't even have to take you to the middle. A few more feet out, and you'll be in over your head!"

His glare became positively bellicose. Winry started laughing until Edward threw his apple away as well. "You're gonna get it for that one!"

Winry leapt to her feet and took a few steps back. She staggered from laughing so hard. Edward lunged at her, but she avoided him in a flurry of movement that kicked up water around them.

"I didn't know they let people as slow as you in the military!" Winry goaded, moving out into thigh-high water. "Bring it on, bean boy!"

"What did you call me!" Edward barked as he righted himself and readied to pounce.

Winry cupped her hands around her mouth. "Beeeean Boy!" she shouted.

Edward looked much like he was going for the jugular. Winry yelped and turned to run out deeper, but she forgot to account for the resistance of water. Her retreat was slow and awkward and cut short by a hot, hard, unrelenting arm around her waist. She shrieked as she was hoisted out of the water and unceremoniously flung back in.

When she floundered back up, sputtering and flailing, Edward was standing over her, sneering.

"Ha!" he barked triumphantly before turning and storming away.

Winry sat dumbstruck for a moment, water lapping at mid-chest. She glared at his back, bitter at her defeat. Before she could pout for long, though, the opportunity arose for retribution, and Winry could _not_ resist.

Jumping to her feet, she charged Edward. He must have been too enveloped in his victory to think to avoid her because he only just began to glance over his shoulder when she was upon him. With a battle cry, Winry slammed into his back. She tackled him to the mud and pinned him face down for as long as she could.

Edward recovered with renewed vengeance. He shoved Winry back as he came to sit up, spitting mud and pond water out of his mouth while wiping his face.

"Ha, yourself!" cried Winry. She gave him a hard push back under the water, but he sprang up quickly. "I'm the champion!" she yelled, waving her arms over her head. "I am victorious!"

"I ain't dead yet," snarled Edward, grabbing her by the shoulders, preparing to dunk and hold. Winry squeaked and began to struggle.

The sound of tinny laughter made them both freeze, their glares vanishing. They both turned to see a now awakened Alphonse hitting the grass with a large hand as he guffawed.

"The battle royal! Bean Boy versus the Ditz! If you two could see your faces…" he gasped.

As though physical awareness grabbed them both by their shirtfronts, Edward and Winry realized what they had been doing and the rather compromising position they were now in: he clutching her shoulders with her kneeling between his knees. Blushing simultaneously, they both shoved the other away.

"You may have won the battle!" Edward snapped, covering his embarrassment with indignation.

Winry did the same. She crossed her arms over her chest. "I'll take that to mean you're forfeiting."

"What? That's not—" He stopped when he heard both his brother and Winry laughing at his expense. "You're all against me!" he cried, throwing his hands up into the air. Edward climbed up to his feet and trudged to the shore. "You fight like a girl," Edward shouted over his shoulder before collapsing next to the picnic basket in the grass.

"So do you!" Winry shouted back. "And I'm the only one here who actually _is_ a girl!" She _humphed_ and turned her back to him, opting to look out over the lake instead.

Even in the chilly water, she could still feel her heated blush and the unmistakable belly-tingles of closeness. Her hands were twitching so she buried in them it the muddy, soft pond bottom. Behind her, she could hear Edward muttering something to himself. Undoubtedly, he was reassuring himself of his own victory.

Her heart began to slow in her ears. Winry could feel the blood receding from her cheeks. When sitting in the water, out in the open for scrutiny, seemed too embarrassing, Winry stood and washed the mud off her hands and shins. She then turned and made her way back to the shore where Edward was pouting in the grass, his dichromatic legs sprawled out.

Winry sat, positioning herself so that the picnic basket was between them. Both she and Edward were silent for a moment, frowning at the lake because they were too timid to glare at each other. Then, from the same place in her gut where the tingles had just faded, an odd kind of tightening built. Before Winry knew it, she was picturing the absurdity and giggling.

Hesitant at first, Edward began to laugh with her.

"Do you remember that time," Winry asked, "When we came out here before Christmas service, and I pushed you into the water? Your mom was so angry." Winry did not think until after she spoke that perhaps she should not mention his mother.

Edward did not flinch. "I was thinking about when Al and I got all those frogs and put them in your bed. I thought you'd never forgive us for that one."

Winry cringed. "I never did."

"You're still angry about the frogs?"

"Seething." She folded her arms across her chest. Edward chuckled smugly, earning himself a blunt punch in the arm. He muttered a quiet _ow_ but continued snickering. When he put his metal hand over the growing welt on his arm, he hissed and jerked away.

"Wimp," Winry muttered.

Edward scoffed. "You didn't hit that hard," he retorted. "My hand it hot again."

"Frying eggs, right?"

"Something like that."

"Sit tight," Winry said, snatching up the folded towel she had brought for herself. Edward gave her a quizzical expression as she bounded back to the shore and crouched down; he could not see what she was doing. Winry returned quickly, holding a now sopping towel in her hands.

"Here you go," she said as she sat down at his right and wrung the towel out over his shoulder. She watched his shoulders rise and fall in a long sigh. He slumped forward slightly.

"Thanks."

"Sure."

And there were the ribbons, the bonds, the binds, knotted so tightly around her heart and looped so loosely around his. She thought she could feel them tugging when she shifted. Actually, Winry did not expect that their ties ended at his heart; that was a trick of the light, of the sun reflecting off the recollections. Upon closer examination, Winry could see knots at his ankle and wrist, at his knee and elbow, at his shoulder but not his hip.

Then it would seem, since she was not tethered there, that his heart was out her jurisdiction. That was all right, though. She had an arm and a leg on which he relied, in which he trusted, and if that was not just as good as a heart, she did not know what was. It was her responsibility to take care of that much, so Winry stood up and went to the water's edge to resoak her towel.


	11. Another Day, Another Siege: Four Years a

A/N: Is it just me, or was referral to Internet Explorer as Internet Exploder rather ironic? Or maybe I missed something. Anyway, thanks for reviews, both past and future! This chapter should explain some stuff.

**XI. Another Day, Another Siege: Four Years and the Immortal Type**

He was going to leave soon. I knew it. It cast a shadow over me, over everything I did. I wanted to throw him down and scream at him, demand that he stay like he owed it to me to keep me company in my little self-made oyster shell. I wanted to hit him so hard he couldn't walk, or maybe I could find some other mode of incapacitation. I wanted to come up with some wild story that would keep him with me. Most of them sounded absurdly unrealistic.

_Edward, I'm dying of some terminal, exotic, unpronounceable disease that can't be healed with alchemy._

_Edward, I can't live alone because building and selling automail isn't lucrative enough._

_Edward, I'm pregnant…and I think it's yours… even though that would be physically impossible. _

_Edward, I'm desperate._

I wanted to stop being pathetic and learn to let him go with grace. I wanted to ask him to stay and be okay with it when he says that he can not. I wanted, just for once, to pretend to be a grown-up and have it stick.

Those desires all plummeted abruptly from the top of my list when I heard him thumping up the stairs arrhythimically. Suddenly, I wanted to slap him for going out and not leaving a note. I wanted to hug him for coming back.

"Edward?" I called from the kitchen. He didn't reply.

"Edward?" I repeated. I didn't hear the front door opening, but his footsteps had stopped. Out of curiosity, I left my dishes in the sink and went to the front door.

"Are you all right?" I asked when I opened the door to find him sitting at the top of the steps, his knees bent up and his elbows resting on them. He glanced over his shoulder at me.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he replied noncommittally. He wasn't grinning, so I thought it was safe to assume that he was telling me the truth. When he didn't say anything else, I invited myself to take a seat next to him, mimicking his position.

"So where'd you go?"

"Just for a walk."

"By yourself?"

"You were still asleep when I left."

I knew the probability of him actually leaving alone out of consideration for me was slim; he didn't want my company, which meant he went to his mother's grave. I could respect that.

I considered asking him to leave a note or something next time, but I managed to stop myself before saying something that presumptuous. Instead, I asked him if he were hungry. He said no. Since the only things we ever discussed were food or automail, I lapsed into an awkward silence. Ed seemed content to be quiet and watch the horizon; he never seemed awkward anymore.

The wind blew my hair into my face, and my gaze fell to our feet when I titled my head down to pull my hair back. I stopped mid-motion, though, and promptly forgot my hair.

His left foot was angled inward and slightly inverted, putting more weight than was natural on the outside edge of his sole.

"Straighten your foot," I said, having had the sinking feeling that Edward was not just sitting funny.

"What?" he asked, glancing at me.

"Straighten your foot," I repeated.

He muttered something, but kept his foot at the angle. "You can't, can you?"

He didn't reply.

Without a word, I seized his arm and stood up. He yelped and stumbled after me as I dragged him through the front door and directly to my work room. I threw him down on the couch and stood in front him, hands on my hips. He looked incredibly sheepish in my shadow.

"Take off you pants," I snarled.

"Win, it's-"

"I said, take off your pants!" I pointed at his leg. "You've busted up _my_ leg again, and it ain't gonna fix itself!" Edward rolled his eyes. "Don't gimme that crap, Ed. You weren't even going to tell me that your leg needed work, were you? You were just going to lumber around like some crippled ape until it completely fell apart, weren't you!"

"All right!" Edward interrupted. "Relax, would you?" He unbuttoned his slacks and wiggled out of them. I snatched them out of his hand and threw them somewhere behind me. Edward merely crossed his arms over his chest and looked elsewhere.

I dropped to one knee and snatched up his metal ankle, resting it on my raised thigh. One look at the travesty stuck to the stump of his leg and the offense was entirely renewed.

"Edward," I growled.

"Yes?" he asked. I could tell he was trying to sound innocent. But it wasn't going to work. I was going to kill him.

"This isn't my leg."

"It should be mine. I paid for it."

I was in no mood. "Quit being a smart ass, Edward. Who the hell designed this piece of crap? This thing would make a better paper weight than a leg! And what happened to the leg I installed?"

"Do you have to say _installed_? It makes me feel like a goddamn car."

"I wish you were a car! This would be a whole hell of a lot easier! Cars don't randomly loose parts! Cars don't see other mechanics behind your back!"

"Is that what this is about?" he asked. "_I_ designed that leg if it makes you feel any better."

"_You_ did? You don't know anything about automail."

"That might be why it would make a better paper weight."

I looked down for a moment. I had insulted him, I thought. It was true, though. The leg he designed was pathetic; I was surprised it actually worked. "What happened to the leg you bought from me?" I asked, trying to sound less aggressive.

Edward hesitated. "I lost it."

"How?"

"It's a long story."

I sat down crossed legged on the floorboards and rested my hands in my lap. "I'm not going anywhere."

And then he was watching me motionlessly. I knew from how hauntingly still he was that his mind was whirring. He was deliberating. He was _actually_ considering telling me what happened. I suddenly didn't know how to act, how he wanted me to act. I knew I wanted to beg him to tell me; I would have made all those childish promises to never tell another living soul or not to laugh at him, but that was irrelevant. Promises wouldn't make a difference; they never did. He was trying to decide how much he trusted me, and I found I was holding my breath.

He gradually looked away, and I felt my chance slipping out of reach.

"For four years, Edward," I said. For once, my voice was not accusing or demanding. It felt nice to hear myself speak like that, to console. "They told us all that you were dead." That sounded absurdly melodramatic to me. Edward probably felt the same. "I didn't believe it. You... you're not the type to die."

Edward laughed. "I didn't know there was a type that couldn't die."

I laughed, too. "Neither did I until I saw you strolling up my driveway. But now that you're here... I'd like to know what I have to thank."

* * *

My mind was blown. Little globs of my brain were splattered around the room, painting the walls. I didn't glob on Edward, but I could tell my gaping expression was making him uncomfortable.

He told me about another world. He told me about his father and a city called Munich. He told me about how glad he was to have blonde hair and how terrified he was to be a cripple. He called himself a cripple. And I wanted to hug him when he said it. He told me about the impotence of drawing circles and circles and circles and nothing, of reading and studying and building and still nothing. He told me about four years, and suddenly I couldn't feel sorry for myself anymore.

He told me about waking up in a cellar in Dublith, sprawled out in the middle of a transmutation circle. He told me about the traces, the signs of a boy who should have been a young man, and I could taste the guilt in the air.

"Al was gone?" I asked. Edward nodded. "Do you think he-"

"No," Edward said, harsh and fast. "I would have felt it. Al didn't perform the transmutation."

"He moved to Dublith with Izumi and Sig months ago, but I haven't heard from him in so long. Why wouldn't he write if he were still—"

"I've only been back a month and a half. He's left Dublith."

I hesitated. "Then you came here looking for Al?"

Edward watched his feet for a moment. "Yes."

Resigned, I nodded. "Okay," I sighed.

"Winry-"

"No, Edward, that's fine." And I meant it. I smiled when I realized that there were tears on my face. I wiped them away. "That's fine."

Before I knew it, Edward was slipping off the couch and sitting on the floor. I didn't actually notice him until something landed on my shoulder and squeezed. I laughed at us both and looked over to him. "Why are you trying to comfort me?"

He shrugged. "You seem like you need comforting."

"No, Edward," I said. "_Why are you trying to comfort me?_"

He watched me for a moment. I knew he knew what I meant. "You learn a lot in four years," was all he had to say.


	12. Another Day, Another Siege: Pride and H

A/N: Perhaps I am simple, but the image of Winry standing over Edward, glaring and demanding, "Take off your pants!" had me chortling for days. Thanks ya'll.**  
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**XII. Another Day, Another Siege: Pride and Humility**

I started work on his new leg before dawn. After shoving down a quick bowl of oat meal, I dedicated myself to the task with a sort of vigor I had not felt for a project in a long time. At my work bench, I flicked on the lamp and found his old leg lifeless on the table. My empathy stung for him when I saw it. He had been doing his best, and I felt almost embarrassed to see that there was something at which Edward Elric was not a natural prodigy. Along with the pinch of shame that shouldn't have been mine, I felt a flicker of selfish happiness: he needed me. At least, he needed a mechanic, and he had picked me.

As I dove in, it occurred to me that Edward must have had some kind of mechanic while he was away. Perhaps he had hired a car mechanic to build it since he had told me that he designed both the arm and the leg himself with the aid of his father.

I imagined that must have been a challenge for him, to accept help from his father.

I looked back up at the limp leg and understood what it must have meant to him. No wonder he did not want me to see it. Not only would I be angry, but he was ashamed of it. It was poorly designed in collaboration with a man Edward could not stand, a man whom he would loathe to ask for advice. Even in the steel, it was an embodiment of Edward's humanity, of his flaws, of his humility.

In the dim light of dawn mixed with the incandescence of compassionate epiphany, the leg didn't look so ugly anymore. In fact, when I considered that it was built by someone who knew little about automail, the leg was very good. I found myself shoving the internal wiring of his new leg aside to investigate the old one. I wanted to see what he knew, what he was able to discern on his own.

Upon removing the last screw, I realized how proud of him I was—his leg was incredible. I decided to tell him that when he woke up.

I heard him coming down the stairs about an hour after dawn. The mixed sounds of one foot padding and one foot scuffing moved into the hall then into the kitchen. Of course, he would raid the kitchen first thing. Even something as important as his automail was secondary—or maybe his automail was only so dire to me. Either way, he didn't appear in my work room in his skivvies without buttered toast in one hand and a glass of orange juice in the other.

I think he asked, "How's it coming?" around a mouthful. I laughed at him, and he frowned.

"It might take a little while, you know. Grandma could crank 'em out, but I'm not that good just yet. I swear she could build automail in her sleep."

"How long, do you think?" he asked after swallowing.

I looked at the braid of wires I was in the process of organizing and rubbed my chin. "I'd say," I paused and hummed, "four days maybe. It's not going to be cheap."

Edward grinned his most disarming grin. "Can I give you an I.O.U.?"

I balked. "What?" Edward always had money. He was the boy-fountain of cash flow. Not once had he given me anything less than crisp, fresh bills.

"All my money is stowed away in a bank in Central. It might take some time."

"Well," I said, sounding like I might turn him down when I knew I couldn't. "I _suppose_ you're good for it. But don't expect me to go easy on you just because we're friends."

He took another bite of toast and crunched, "Wouldn't dream of it."

I looked back to my work and saw the discarded pieces of his old leg, sitting to the side where I had left them. "So... uh..." There was no easy was to compliment Ed. Unless worded in the form of an insult, he wouldn't accept it, and I really wanted him to accept this one. "That old leg of yours," I began.

"What about it?" he asked quickly, defensively.

Good, he was insulted already. "It really was a piece of junk by my standards." I paused to let him seethe. "But, considering how much experience you have in designing and building automail and what you've told me about the quality of the technology in... that other place, it wasn't half bad."

"It wasn't half good," he muttered.

"But it worked," I added. "And I bet you were the only guy there with animated prosthetics."

Edward shrugged. I supposed that was as good as it was going to get. "So, I was wondering," I said while I separated the ends of the wires and fitted plugs on each one, "How did you manage to trick me with your arm? It could have been my original with a couple of messy fix it jobs."

He shrugged again. "I've watched you build them before. Plus, I've seen you do enough open repairs on it to remember."

"You wrote out blueprints just from that?" I asked, astonished.

Edward and his shrug. That, apparently, was his all purpose answer.

"You really are a genius," I muttered.

"I guess," came another crunchy reply. With that, he turned and left my work room. I could have been offended by his abruptness, but I decided not to be. He had heard what I had to say whether he liked it or no, and it felt good to know that, for once, what I had to say was a compliment rather than a complaint. He probably deserved that more often.- -  
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A/N part 2: To Remick, the Lupine Alchemist, I used ambiguous words like "traces" and "signs" to make you wonder. Ha ha. Live in your macabre curiosity! XD


	13. Recess plus omake

A/N: Tobu, I wuv you. Wuv wuv wuv. Your praise and concrit just makes my day. Seriously, I appreciate it so much. Hmm, how Winry can quote the AA handbook is beyond me. File a complaint with my muse.

**XIII. Recess**

The train car was getting chillier and chillier with each hand they played. Since neither player was up to risking their money, they opted to wager less precious things: shoes, socks, coats. Winry, now without her boots or coat, hunched over her hand of cards and snuggled deeper into her bounty: a long red overcoat and a thinner, black coat. Once she tucked her bare feet against her thighs on the bench, her situation did not seem so bad. Her opponent, on the other hand, was not doing well. Now without either of his coats, Edward was looking rather uncomfortable. Winry's coat, which he had rightfully won three hands ago, was too small for him—a discovery made with much triumphant hue and cry. The celebration quickly died, however, when Edward remembered that it was February in Central, on a train that protected against the elements about as well as a set of car keys shaken in the midst of an Ishballan rain dance.

"Not looking so big and tough anymore, are you?" Winry goaded.

"Shut up," Edward muttered, casting a glance at his winnings. He should have thought ahead. Did it occur to him that in lieu of his coats, Winry's belongs would serve absolutely no purpose? No, of course not. Her tiny, girlish boots and tiny, girlish coat would make better fuel for a fire. He would have tried it, too, were it not for the inevitable enraged girl and peeved train attendants that would be a result.

"All right, Ed. You've been glaring at your cards for five minute now. You're not going to intimidate them into changing," Winry chirped.

"I'm thinking, here, all right," he snapped. "Remind me not to play poker with you in the future."

Winry put her nose in the air. "Is it my fault that I'm lucky and just that skilled? Now place your bet."

Edward grumbled under his breath and went back to scowling at his cards. In truth, he had a rather good hand. His royal straight seemed promising, and he could not imagine that Winry had anything better. The problem was he was running out of things to bet. He had cash, but with the prospects of ensuring lodging and food for Winry, his brother, and himself on the horizon, he thought it safer to keep his funds to himself. He knew exactly what Winry would do with the money once she got it; they were on their way to Rush Valley—any money Winry had was as good as gone. The idea of losing anymore clothing was even less appealing. He already knew that it would take some finagling to get his coats back even after the cards had been put away; if he lost anything else, things would start getting indecent.

"Tick tock, Ed," Winry sang. Edward glared at her.

As annoying at he thought she was, she had reminded him of the last playable item on his person; however, he was not certain if he trusted his hand enough to risk it. The game had been evenly matched for the most part, but his hand was good. Still, could he risk his pocket watch? He knew he'd probably never see it again once she got her hands on it.

Edward felt Alphonse looking over his shoulder. With a grumble of protest, Edward snatched his cards away. "Back off," he snapped even though Alphonse was not participating.

Al crossed his arms with a quiet clank and looked ahead. "Just making sure you're playing fair, brother. I'm glad Winry took your coats; you've got no sleeves to hide things in."

Winry smirked. "That's just like you, Ed, to cheat your own baby brother."

"Really," Alphonse added.

"Come on," Edward retorted. "I gave you all your stuff back, didn't I?"

"Still," said Al. Even without facial expressions, Edward knew his brother was pouting.

Winry put her palm down hard on Edward's suitcase, their makeshift table resting on both of their knees. "We're going to be pulling up to Rush Valley before you get on with it, aren't we?"

"Fine!" Edward snapped. He reached into his pocket and snatched out his watch. He quickly unlatched the chain from the watch and set it down next to the deck. "You happy?"

Winry watched the timepiece for a moment in astonishment. Then, her eyes grew wide and shiny as she clasped her cards to her chest. "I can't believe it," she murmured.

"Don't think you're going to get it."

Winry's teary expression quickly snapped into a smug smirk. "It's as good as mine, Ed. You better start coming with excuses for Mustang when you have to beg him to issue you a new one."

"And you better start coming up with ways to beg me to give you your coat when I take back mine," Edward countered. Winry had bet both of his coats. Obviously the stakes were high.

"Are you sure you don't want to reconsider, Edward?" sneered Winry, leaning forward.

Edward leaned forward as well. "I could be asking you the same thing."

"Don't worry about me."

"Same to you."

"Fine." Winry sat back and pursed her lips.

Edward did the same. "Fine."

"Lay out your cards then see if you're so damn confident."

"You first."

"No you first. I dealt."

"What kind of rule is that? You bet first. Lay 'em down."

"I'm playing casino-style, Edward, like a professional. You show first."

"Oh yeah, like you've ever been in a casino."

"How would you know? Maybe I have."

"You can't convince anyone you're eighteen."

"You couldn't convince anyone you're twelve."

"That was uncalled for, Winry."

"The truth hurts."

"I'm not short!"

"Admitting is the first step toward acceptance, Edward. You're tiny."

"I am not!"

"Uh huh!"

"Nuh uh!"

"Uh huh!"

"Nuh-"

"Would one of you just lay down your cards?" Alphonse exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "You sound like a couple of three-year-olds."

Both Edward and Winry shot out a single hand and pointed at the other, declaring simultaneously that the other had started it. Alphonse let out an exasperated sigh and flopped back loudly against the chair. "Children," he moaned, shaking his head.

Scowling furiously, Winry and Edward looked back toward each other. They locked eyes in a silent staring contest, but it was not long before Edward made a loud declaration about being the bigger person and laid down his hand, displaying proudly his ace-high straight.

"Read 'em and weep," he said.

Winry looked from his hand then down to hers and back again. Her face fell. "Too bad," she moaned.

"Ha!" Edward barked. "Hand over my coats."

Winry pouted at her cards for a long moment before looking back up. Her pout then faded rather quickly into a smart grin. "No, too bad for you Edward." Winry spread her cards out on the suitcase. "A full house, baby!"

"What?" Edward asked, his voice cracking.

"Ha ha!" Winry snatched up the pocket watch. "Who's the loser? _You're_ the loser!" she said, pointing at Edward. "I can't wait to tear this thing apart." She clutched the watch to her chest.

"No, wait!" Edward said. "I want a rematch! Give that back!"

"Oh, no, Edward. I won this fair and square." Winry turned her shoulder toward Edward, cradling the watch protectively.

"I'll give you all your stuff back, Winry. I'll buy you all the junk you want in Rush Valley. Just give me back my watch!"

"You mean _my _watch, Edward?" she goaded.

He growled audibly and resolved to trade begging for attacking. Winry squeaked as Edward swatted the suitcase aside and lunged for her. The air was filled with a burst of fluttering cards from the upset suitcase.

"Brother!" Al chided at the suitcase flew into the aisle and slid to a stop at the feet of another passenger. The few people on the train with them were turning and staring, some more surreptitiously than others. Edward did not seem to notice them.

"Gimme that watch!" he barked. In the resulting jumble of limbs, Winry slipped off the bench and fell to the ground with a loud thud and yelp of protest.

"Hey!" she cried, still holding the watch to her chest. From his perch on the bench, Edward glared down at her. "What's wrong with you? That hurt, you jerk!"

"It'll hurt less if you give up now!"

"Oh, you wanna wrestle?" Winry asked haughtily. She suddenly wished she had a wrench in her hands instead of the watch; it would make her bluff a little more convincing. "Let's hope you're better at that than you are at poker."

Edward snarled and pounced. Winry scurried backwards until her back was to the wall, the window above her head. Once cornered, she realized that—all bragging aside—she probably could not pin Edward even if he were missing all his automail and then some. She ducked behind her arms, but Edward seized both her wrists and pulled them away. Moving too fast for Winry to struggle, he gripped the hand containing his watch, extended her arm fully, turned around, and pinned her elbow between his side and his upper arm.

"Ow! You jerk!" Winry exclaimed, pulling on her arm fruitlessly. She pounded on his back, but Edward was too busy trying to pry her fingers loose to notice. "Al, help me out!" Winry said, turning to the suit of armor to her right. Even with Alphonse's expressionless face, Winry could tell he had rolled his eyes.

"Brother, let her go," Alphonse said.

Edward shook his head. "Don't side with her!"

"She did win it fair and-"

From the sleeve Edward had trapped in his grip, two kings, a queen, and three aces fell, landing silently on the floorboards.

"-Square."

Both Edward and Winry stopped struggling and watched the small pile of very valuable cards by Edward's thigh. Slowly, Edward turned a deadly glare on his opponent. Winry stared for a moment before putting on a wide, disarming grin.

"Oh, how did _those_ get there?" she asked.

"You little…" Edward turned around and readied for an attack. Once her arm was free, Winry leapt to her feet and, with more agility than Edward knew she possessed, vaulted over him and darted into the aisle. Gaping, Edward watched her tear down the aisle and out of the car.

They sat in a moment of silence, gawking at her escape. "You shouldn't have bet something so valuable, brother," Alphonse said eventually.

Edward frowned and stood up. "I could use a little help, you know. She's like a freaking monkey."

"What goes around comes around," Alphonse replied, crossing his arms over his chest plate.

Edward pursed his lips in a glare. "Fine. I don't need your help anyway, Al. It's not like she can get that far." With that, Edward turned and stormed off in the direction in which Winry had just left, deliberately ignoring all the annoyed expressions he received.

Once Edward was gone, most of the faces were turned to Alphonse, who would have grinned awkwardly if he could. Instead, he held up his palms in surrender and murmured a quick apology to anyone close enough to hear.

It was like that, he had found. Alphonse was often on clean-up duty. Sometimes, Alphonse thought maybe his brother made such boisterous displays in public to try and distract from Al's appearance. It worked for the most part; more people stared at and whispered about the Fullmetal Alchemist than they did his sidekick. Whether that was Edward's intention or not, Al usually found himself smoothing out the wreckage in his brother's wake.

He did not mind. Alphonse was a peacemaker by nature, and it made him feel rather like he was taking care of Edward, looking out for him. It might not be atonement—his secret desire that Alphonse kept stowed away in his hollow chest—but it was something.

Alphonse smiled: a distant memory of the sensation of muscles contracting and skin pulling. He smiled at the thought of one more deed done to his brother's benefit, of the sweet retaliation of karma, of how refreshing it was to see his brother playing.

Alphonse liked having Winry around; it was the only time Edward ever really played.

**-  
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**

**Omake ;D**

**(For Terrasina Dragonwagon and Droolingsleep)**

Winry heard footsteps pounding behind her. She risked a glance over her shoulder and found one irate, watchless State Alchemist on a warpath. She let out an excited laugh and leapt into a run down the narrow aisle through the benches.

"There's no point in running, Winry," Edward called, "You can't get off the train."

"That's what you think!" Winry called back. She was not exactly sure how she could prove Edward wrong, but she was in the mood to be antagonistic, so she countered anyway.

Together, they charged into the next car and the next until they reached the end of the passenger cars.

"You're running out of train!" Edward shouted when he caught up to Winry at the entrance to the first cargo car. The cabin was packed and dark, smelling acrid like gunpowder.

Weaving her way through a forest of large, wooden crates, Winry called back, "That won't stop me! And no alchemy in here, buddy. These crates are filled with explosives!"

"How do you know that?" Edward asked, vaulting over a crate.

"An attendant told me in the dining car. Really, Ed, you were right there. Would it kill you to pay attention sometimes?" Winry threw open the back door and stepped out onto the blustery platform. Edward reached the door just in time to suck in a breath when Winry leapt the gap between the two platforms.

The next car contained a noisome sardine tin of pigs. This was exponentially more difficult to maneuver through than the crates since the pigs tended to move around. Still, Winry swam through the livestock with Edward paddling at her heels. Into the next car they escaped and chased respectively. Now in the inanimate obstacle course of grain bags piled to the ceiling, Winry gained some distance. She turned to goad Edward on but tripped over the protruding corner of one bag before she could say a word. With a shriek and a loud thud, Winry hit the floor hard.

Shooting back up to her feet, Winry turned and darted through the door. Edward almost seized the back of her shirt before she jumped, but she launched herself just in time. Upon landing on the opposite platform, Winry turned and stuck out her tongue.

"You're cornered now!" Edward shouted over the wind. Winry called back to him, but her words were lost in the _whoosh_ and _clatter._ She then turned and slipped through the door of the last cargo car. Edward followed.

Throwing open the door dramatically, Edward nearly collided with Winry's back. He managed to skid to a halt at her side instead. When she simply stood there, Edward opened his mouth to ask what she was doing, but stopped when he noticed the strange state of the car.

Through the air wafted the sounds of bedroom beseeching to the tune of early 70's gratuitous sexuality and overused falsetto.

"What the hell is this?" Edward asked, looking around the nearly empty car.

"It must be that feather mattress, ceiling mirror, and Marvin Gaye record shipment the attendant mentioned."

"Oh," Edward replied. That made sense with the thick mattress on the floor, the long mirror on the ceiling, and the aural aphrodisiac in the air.

"Well that was fun," Winry said, turning to Edward and putting her hands on her hips. "But now I'm all hot and sweaty and gross." She looked down at herself.

"If only there were a shipment of conveniently pre-filled bathtubs," Edward offered, eyeing the watch in Winry's hand.

"If only," she sighed. "What am I going to do with a mattress, a ceiling mirror, and _really_ suggestive Marvin Gaye music?"

"Well, you can't hide!" Edward exclaimed, lunging for his pocket watch. Winry wrenched it away and stumbled backwards. She took a few awkward steps before falling to a heap on the remarkably soft and comfortable mattress. In the jumble, she took Edward down with her.

"Ha!" he said, pinning her arm to the mattress and pulling the watch from her hand. "Teach you to cheat at cards!"

Winry would have snapped back at him had she not come to the sudden realization that she was literally nose to nose with Edward and pinned quite fully to an opportunely placed mattress, watching Edward's back in the mirror above and trying not to listen to the permeating bedroom voice of Mr. Gaye.

Edward must have noticed, too, because he swallowed audibly and blushed as bright at his coat. "So… uh… yeah. I win," he stuttered before slipping his watch into his pocket.

As Edward began to remove himself from the tangled knot of limbs, Winry seized his shoulders and agilely flipped them both over. Now perched over Edward, Winry pulled the watch from his pocket.

"Hey!" Edward protested, sitting up and reaching. Winry held the watch away before tossing it over her shoulder. Edward's face fell as the watch hit the floor and slid to a stop a distance away.

"Forget the stupid watch. Is it just me," Winry began, her face flaring up like the fireworks over the Titanic, "Or is this whole thing really—"

"Convenient?" Edward interjected after leaning back on his elbows.

"No," Winry glared. "I was _going_ to say…" she looked around quickly before lowering her voice, "_sexy."_

Edward squeaked. "I g-guess."

"Isn't it, though?" she asked quickly. "It is," she glanced around again and whispered, "_sexy_."

"Do you have to keep saying it like that?" Edward asked, his voice cracking.

"I can't help it!" Winry whined. "You try saying it."

"No."

"Come on, just try."

"No way!"

Winry put her hands on her hips and frowned. "Say it or I'm taking my shirt off!"

"_Huh?_"

Winry doubted that she had ever seen the blood leave someone's face that fast. Edward looked terrified, and that only made her grin when she grasped the hem of her shirt and began an upward tug.

"Sexy!" Edward exclaimed, grabbing her shirt and holding it down. "Sexy sexy sexy! Just keep your clothes on!"

"What's wrong with you?" Winry asked, crossing her arms. "I'm not letting you off this ridiculously plush mattress until you tell me what's got you so weird."

"I don't know," he snapped sarcastically, pushing himself up and glaring into her eyes. "But it might have something to do with the girl sitting on me!"

"Oh, please," Winry sighed. "You've thought about it. You know you have. Plus, we owe this story's followers a little fan service, don't you think? I mean, it has been _thirteen_ chapters."

"What?" Edward gave her a confused expression. "No, I've never thought… well, not recently… not since… uh…"

"You're thinking about it right now," Winry said in a singsong voice.

"It's just," Edward stammered before falling victim to an unforeseen streak of sincerity. "I've got deep-seated trust issues with women stemming from my mother and my feelings of abandonment due to her dying when I was so young."

"Okay, Freud," Winry said exasperatedly.

"Who the hell is Freud?" Edward asked. "For that matter, who the hell is _Marvin Gaye?_"

"That's irrelevant, Edward," Winry said, clipping the end of his sentence. "What matters is that I've got you pinned to a mattress, we're all alone, and it's inevitable even if it's not canon."

Edward sighed. "Oh, okay."

Winry clapped her hands. "Yippee!"

"I guess this would be a good time to tell you that I've been insanely in love with you since childhood. Even though I appeared not to give a rat's ass about you, you've never left my mind. You haunt my dreams; you—"

"What are you doing?" Winry asked, wrinkling her nose.

Edward blinked. "Uh… just trying to feed you romantic platitudes. Fan service, right?"

"Oh, right," Winry wiggled her hips. "Ditto."

They proceeded to rip each other's clothes off, dramatically kiss every inch of the other, and get it on with techniques that cannot be described in a K+ rated fiction. Just know that it was really, really hot for a really, really long duration because they were young, and young people can do that.


	14. Another Day, Another Siege: Pancakes, Po

A/N: Thanks, Tobu, for the warning about the song lyrics. It is much appreciated coughevenifIthinkit'sabsurdcough Yes, Terrasina DW, last chapter was a barrel of monkeys to write. I just sat down and wrote with the intention of making it as farcical as I could. Yay, it worked.

**XIV. Another Day, Another Siege: Pancakes, Porcelain, and Pearls**

I awoke to the sound of heavy rain. I loved rain like that. It was the kind of downpour that caught the day at late morning and held it there until nightfall. It painted the entire landscape blue and gray and gave me a good excuse stay indoors and cuddle up with the latest issue of_ Mechanical Medicine_.

Something in the weather inspired me to make a ridiculously large breakfast for my houseguest and me. As I expected, Edward scurried into the kitchen in his pajamas about thirty seconds after I put the bacon in the skillet.

"What's got you so domestic?" he asked, peeling a brown sugar pancake off the stack by the stove. He rolled it up like an empty canolli and ate casually while leaning on the counter next to me.

He always used to do that. I almost laughed at him in his tired pajama pants, playing out these ancient habits like they were traditions we've kept since childhood, like we hadn't missed a day. The more I watched him, though, the more it looked somehow incongruous to me to see him there, this stranger in place of someone I thought I knew. I suppose if I had been there to witness the changes, Edward's abrupt jump from then to now wouldn't have seemed so drastic. In my mind, the old, faded memory of Edward in my kitchen didn't adapt, the space he left behind wouldn't stretch to fit this person, this man. I caught myself staring at him and quickly looked back to my sizzling bacon.

I suddenly felt my discomfiture renewed, like it had been when he first sauntered up my drive. What little familiarity we had managed to scrounge together wafted out the window on the bacon-scented breeze as I remembered that four years was a very long time. I felt like I didn't know him. It was someone else pretending to be Edward. And I had no idea what to do with him.

I wondered if he felt the same. He probably didn't even think about it. Damn him.

"Win?" he said, leaning forward.

"Huh-what?" I said, snapping out of my reverie.

"You all right?" he asked before plucking a strip of bacon out of the skillet with his right hand.

"Oh yeah," I replied, waving a spatula at him dismissively.

"Hmm," was his reply as he blew on his bacon before popping it into his mouth and chewing with relish. He swallowed and sighed contentedly. "I knew there was a reason I stuck around."

I laughed and tried to remember what Winry would say to Edward at a time like this. "You mean besides this?" I asked, kicking his left shin lightly. My bare foot _thunked_ against the rigid plastic of his temporary leg.

Then it was time for one of us to say something again, and Edward was chewing another pancake. So it was up to me. "Get a plate," I said. He, surprisingly, obeyed. He even had the audacity to get me a plate, too. I took that as an invitation to eat with him.

After scraping the bacon onto a platter, I loaded down my plate and took my seat at the table where Edward was not bothering to wait for me.

He poured syrup over his pancakes and held the pitcher out to me. "Syrup?" he asked around a mouthful. I looked at his offer for a moment and shook my head. "Since when do you eat your pancakes plain?"

I shrugged before tearing a piece off my topmost pancake and eating it. Edward didn't care enough to argue and continued eating.

"So… uh…" _must say something,_ "do you know where you're going next?"

Edward looked over the side of his glass of orange juice at me. He set it down and wiped his mouth before saying, "Well, I've got to hit the bank at Central to pay you back before anything else. I guess I'll make that home base and work from there."

"Do you think Al's in Central?" Oh, that was _slick_.

Edward paused with his fork in front of his mouth and blinked. "I'm not sure," he replied guardedly.

Then I shoved my other foot into my mouth. "I think he would have written me wherever he was. That doesn't seem like him."

"I'm certain he's got a reason."

And that was that. Edward clearly had nothing else he wanted to share on the topic, so I let us eat in silence. The quiet was only broken later when Edward got up from the table and thanked me for making breakfast. He didn't comment on that fact that I—rather remarkably, I felt—had remembered his favorite after so long. Then again, it might have not been his favorite anymore.  
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It rained for the next four days. By the end of day three, late morning was getting very old, blue and gray were making me seasick, and _Mechanical Medicine_ was dog-eared and tired of my company. You can only cozy up to a magazine for so long before you realize that the heartbeat you feel from the pages is just the pulse in your own fingers.

And I remembered that I hated rain like that.

None of the shin plates I had ready were the right size to fit the leg I was making for Edward. That entailed some delays, and I could not decide whether I was relieved to find that or disappointed. For the past four days, he had been sulking around, as miserable as the weather. He would not tell me what was bothering him though that came as no big surprise to me. He even seemed offended that I had asked. It felt like every time I opened my mouth around him, things became more distant, more alien. I hated that feeling almost as much as I hated the rain. I felt like I had done something wrong, and it only made it worse that I could not figure out what I had done.

Regardless of that, the backordered shin plate meant that I would have either to wait for a new one to come in or cut one of my existing plates to fit, and by the end of rainy day four, I hadn't the energy nor the focus to turn on my table saw and trim the metal down.

I left my workroom in search of something to eat and passed the front door on my way to the kitchen. I couldn't help but notice that Edward's boots were missing, as was his coat. A quick glance out the window had me worrying. Why would he go out so late in such lousy weather? I abruptly forgot dinner, donned my boots and coat and snatched an umbrella from the hall closet.

It occurred to me, once I was ankle deep in the infamous Rizembul mud, that charging out on a search for a man who was as clever as me—if not more so—and probably did not want to be found was not very wise. On top of that, however helpful my umbrella was, my foolish optimism was not going to keep the wind from blowing raindrops in my face.

I cursed at the rain but kept trudging. I cursed the wind but continued my futile endeavors of wiping my eyes. I cursed Edward but still dug through my mind, trying to discern where he might have gone.

As I raged a battle against my mounting apprehension, the wind began to die. The rain then faded into a thin, limping drizzle. The clouds in the west were starting to glow faintly, signaling a setting sun. Climbing a small hill, I noticed in the distance, lit up by the fading light, something moving on the crest of an adjacent rise.

What I saw there struck me into paralysis. The dying light reflected silver off the damp stones of the foundation and looming chimney. The dirt was black with ash and decomposing fragments of charred wood. Rude shoots and saplings had begun to appear, some standing tall enough to be seen over the foundation. It could have been picturesque against the sunset.

I wondered how I could have forgotten. How could I have been so insensitive?

It was October third.

I snapped my umbrella shut awkwardly and sprinted down the hill. Sliding and splashing, I trudged through the trough until I found the overgrown strip of dirt that had once been the drive leading up to the Elric home. Thick streams of sludgy water cut grooves into the road, and I leapt them clumsily. I felt mud splattering up against my shins, but the sight of Edward's silhouette pacing the foundations of his childhood home didn't leave me with much concern for anything else.

My feet nearly slipped out from under me when I tried to stop at the top of his drive. Panting and dripping, I put a hand on the hulking skeleton of a hibernating tree and waited to catch my breath.

When I looked up, he was facing away and backing toward me with a jerky gait. I moved closer and began to ask him what he was doing, but I stopped when I saw he was dragging his heel in the crunchy, black mud, leaving behind a shallow furrow.

There in the ground was the stairwell, the hall, a guest room, the bathroom, the master bedroom, and third bedroom. In this last room, Edward had stopped and was standing, facing the murky sunset.

I felt almost like I was trespassing when I stepped into the plot, like I was treading on a grave. Out of respect, I walked up the stairs and paused, looking at the view from the hall window. I then turned and walked with reverence down the hall. Outside the boys' bedroom, I hesitated.

"May I come in?" I asked.

Edward didn't look back at me. He didn't reply either.

I started to let myself in, but stopped in the doorway, my hands searching for the ghost of the doorframe.

Just as he had when lounging in my kitchen, this Edward looked out of place, like a puzzle piece forced into a slot that didn't quite match. He wasn't tall, but he was taller. He wasn't broad, but he was broader. He wasn't old, but he was ancient.

I could see a little boy on his toes, his forearms resting on the windowsill, looking out at the sunset on a clear night. In the rosy light, his blue pajamas blush purple and messy hair is illuminated. He glances back and commands me with a gesture to be quiet; his brother is asleep in the top bunk. He waves me forward, telling me it's all right to join him at the window.

Things change. I knew that. People change. They grow up; they fill in their gaps with experience and personality, embellishing the little porcelain things they were in childhood with polish and scars and masks.

Pearls, after all, are just grains of sand revamped, reworked, painted and painted and painted until it is hard to believe they ever were something as unfinished as grit.

It was unfair of me to try to squeeze Edward into the hole he left behind. It was time to throw out the old pattern and allow for a new. I could not hold him up to his past, to my past, when there was _so much more. _There was an eternity between the boy at the window and the man in the mud, and it made my heart hurt to know that I had missed out on that time; but what there was now was there, in front of me, and I could _not_ afford to let it slip away with the ash and dirt. Not this time.

My umbrella fell from my hand with a quiet _pat_ as it struck the ground and sank unnoticed. Edward did not move until I was behind him, wrapping my arms around his ribs and squeezing him tight. I pressed my cheek to the damp shoulder of his coat and stilled myself until I was just breath and arms. I could hear his heart beating independently of mine, and after a moment, we beat in time.

I felt him shift and look over his shoulder at me. He watched me for a moment, and for once, I didn't care. I didn't care what he thought; I wasn't hugging him selflessly. Slowly, he looked forward again at the gray sunset. His bare flesh hand touched mine. I felt his palm spread over my fist where it was closed tightly around a fold in his coat, and he gently pulled, trying to dislodge me.

I started to cry.

He tugged on my hand again then breathed a resigned sigh. His arms fell to his sides, and I pressed myself closer.

"It's really cold out here," I said as though trying to explain myself.

"I noticed."

"I think it's okay, though."

He breathed long and deep. "It is," he answered, "It's fine."


	15. The Merlion Party

A/N: Walis, the little knot of jealousy inside me is eating away at my soul. Gee, thanks. XD. Thank you everyone for the wonderful reviews. I'm late for work, so I might edit more later. It probably needs it.

**XV. The Merlion Party**

"Edward," Winry whined, extending her vowels. "Come on. It's not going to kill you." When he did not respond, Winry snatched at his arm and began to pull him toward the door. "I know you're got be getting cold now. I'm freezing, and I'm not half metal."

Edward stood his ground, his face upturned slightly and illuminated by the yellowy green of the backlighted sign. "The Merlion Bar," the sign read, in bold, black print over a background of the green and white Amesteris flag. Winry gave him another hard tug, and Edward jerked his arm away.

"Go in by yourself if your so cold," he snapped, flicking his eyes toward her.

"I don't want to go alone!" she replied, putting her gloved hands on her hips. "I don't know any of these people. You do."

"That's not true," he muttered as he looked back up to the sign. Winry could see his brow furrow. "I don't know any of them either."

"Sure you do, Ed. Mr. Mustang and Miss Hawkeye, you know them."

Edward scoffed. "Not anymore than you do."

Winry rolled her eyes. "Would you quit being so aloof and pouty? You might actually have some fun."

"I doubt it," he muttered.

With a loud sigh that left them both in a curling cloud of condensed breath, Winry punched Edward in the arm. "What are you so afraid of? It's my last night in Central, Ed. Would it kill you to at least _pretend_ to be a gentleman?"

"This has nothing to do with my etiquette, and I'm not afraid of anything," he spat back, glaring.

"Then hold the door open for me and follow me inside, Mr. Brave and Chivalrous!" Winry gave an exaggerate shiver and wrapped her arms around her shoulders. "Why didn't you tell me it would still be this cold?"

"You didn't-" Edward began.

"Hey, Chief!" interrupted a loud voice from a short distance down the street. Both Edward and Winry spun around to see a tall man in a brown overcoat jogging down the sidewalk toward them. From his lip hung a lit cigarette that glowed and faded with his breath.

"Hey," Edward muttered before examining the concrete at his feet.

"What're you waiting out here for? It's already ten-thirty."

"I was just leaving," Edward lied. Winry scoffed and stood akimbo.

"That's not true," she interjected, turning to the smoking man. "We've been standing out here forever, while he glares at the door. I'm freezing to death here, and he's being sulky."

"Elric? Being Sulky? Never," replied the man before grinning at a very disgruntled Edward. "Since the major here obviously doesn't want to, I'll introduce myself." The man pulled the leather glove off his right hand and extended it to Winry. "Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc," he said, flashing her a smile that had melted greater women than she.

Winry blushed dark enough to be seen in the lamplight and accepted his hand. "Winry Rockbell," she replied. "I'm Edward's mechanic."

"A pleasure, Miss Rockbell," Havoc said. He looked up toward the glowing sign then back down at the children in front of him. "If you're looking for a decent escort, Miss Rockbell, I'd be happy to assist you."

Winry felt lightheaded at the offer. She looked from Edward, who was still scowling at the pavement, to Havoc and back again. "Hmph," she said before sticking her nose in the air and looked back at Havoc. "I accept, Lieutenant," she said haughtily.

Havoc grinned, stepped in front of Edward, and opened the door wide. Winry strolled past Edward without a glance back and went inside. Havoc followed behind her and paused in the doorway. He turned back to Edward and said, "I think your girlfriend likes me."

Edward bristled. "She's not my-" he was cut short by the door swinging shut. For a moment, he stood, fists clenched, growling at the closed passage. "All right!" Edward yelled at no one in particular. He threw his hands up into the air and stormed toward the door. With more gusto than necessary, he threw the door open and stomped inside.

Immediately, Edward struck a wall of smoke. Coughing loudly, he waved his hand in front of his face. Once his lungs grew accustomed to the burn, he squinted through the clouds and dim lights.

Edward found it hard to believe that this little bar was a military favorite. He had imagined something a little more prestigious than a rectangular room with a bar at the back and a sea of rickety looking tables and chairs on the floor. In the corner by the door was a vacant stage that looked like it had not sported a musician in years. There were no windows save the grimy pane in the door, and the only light was provided by a few hanging lamps over the bar. Through the dim, grayish light, Edward could make out two people at the bar and a small congregation that took up a square table near the back.

"Fullmetal," a familiar voice called from the clump at the table. "I was afraid you had bailed on us."

Lieutenant Colonel Mustang raised his hand and gestured for Edward to join him. Pushing smoke out of his way, Edward wove through the tables. As he came closer, he could make out six bodies around two tables pushed together.

A blonde head popped up when Mustang spoke. At least half a foot shorter than everyone else at the table, it was obviously Winry. "Edward!" she cried. "Come sit down, silly!"

Edward felt a wave of embarrassment at her display but pulled out a chair between Warrant Officer Falman and Winry.

"Some party," Edward said, looking around the table at the assorted glasses in front of everyone. "You invited me out to get drunk with you?" Edward asked Mustang with a glare.

"On the contrary, Fullmetal," Mustang replied. "You won't be drinking on my watch."

"You're letting _her_ drink," Edward said, pointing to Winry, who was cupping a beer in her hands as though it were something precious and entirely alien. Edward was not particularly interested in alcohol, but Mustang always put him in the mood to be antagonistic.

"She's not leaving for Youswell on a seven o'clock train," Mustang said before taking a draw off his gin and tonic.

"Thanks for reminding me," Edward muttered.

"Enough pleasantries," Major Hughes said, drawing patterns in the condensation on the side of his beer stein. "Now that we're all here, I'd like to propose a toast."

Everyone breathed a collective sigh when Hughes opted to cut to the chase and not waste good drinking time with pictures of his wife and newborn child. Hughes lifted his drink while Mustang and the others followed suit. Even Winry raised her cherished bottle. Edward blew out a breath that ruffled his bangs and leaned his cheek heavily against his fist.

"To the newest member of the Merlion Party, Edward Elric. May he not burn all his bridges with us before he is old enough to actually drink with us."

Edward sat up very straight at the mention of his name. He wished he could have slid under the table and crawled out of the bar through the smoke cover.

"The youngest state alchemist in history," Havoc said.

"The brat who lost _me_ the title of youngest state alchemist in history," Mustang added. Edward growled audibly.

"The bravest twelve-year-old I've ever met," Hawkeye said, giving Edward a rare, genuine smile.

"A good guy to have around in a tight situation," offered Falman. He smirked, obviously a little embarrassed.

All eyes turned to Winry, the only person left who had not given Edward his acclamation. Her beer began to shake in her raised hand as a flush spread over her face. Edward did not realize he had been holding his breath until he started to feel dizzy.

Winry felt a gentle elbow against her ribs. "Even honorary members for the night have to go," Havoc said, close to her ear. Winry swallowed and nodded. Just one little compliment, and all these strangers would stop staring at her. That was simple enough.

But how, she wondered, was she supposed to sum up Edward in one sentence?

When nothing else seemed near appropriate, Winry simply said, "My best friend."

Hughes smiled and nodded. "Edward Elric, consider yourself initiated." At that, everyone lifted their glasses and drank deep except Winry who sipped timidly and winced at the flavor.

Edward looked around, still a little stunned at being showered with praise. "I-I don't understand. What did I just join?"

"We like you, Chief," Havoc said. "We've decided to keep you."

"You make it sound like a cult," Mustang said, laughing. "We're actually all eunuchs, with the exception of Hawkeye. You're just in time for our ceremonial mass suicide."

Hughes and Havoc burst into laughter while Hawkeye and Falman shook their heads. Winry looked around, wondering what a eunuch was. Fortunately, she was not brave enough to ask.

"You're frightening him," Hawkeye chided, gesturing to Edward, who was looking rather pale. He, unlike Winry, knew _exactly_ what a eunuch was.

"Relax, Edward," Hughes said before taking another drink from his beer. "The five of us have been meeting at this bar for… how many years now?" Hughes asked, turning to Mustang.

"At least four," Mustang answered. Havoc nodded in agreement.

"Four years now. It's become sort of a tradition. You know, a few drinks, a hand of poker; anyway, we thought you might like to join us."

"The Merlion Party?" Edward asked, looking around at the faces of his comrades.

"Yep," Havoc said. "We'll teach you how to drink like a pro so you'll be ready in…" Havoc paused and wrinkled his nose. "Is it really six years until you turn eighteen?"

Edward sighed. "Yes."

"Wow… I keep forgetting you're only a kid. Anyway, we'll get that tolerance up."

"We will _not_," Hawkeye interjected. "Edward, we're simply inviting you to play cards with us after work."

In the silence that followed, Edward realized it was time for him to accept or decline. He hated this kind of attention. Usually, he could laugh it off and pretend to enjoy himself, but somehow this felt serious. His comrades were offering some kind of approval of him. Looking around, Edward saw that everyone was smiling at him, not smirking, not sneering, but smiling honestly. Even Mustang, whom Edward already believed was incapable of authenticity, was smiling, albeit rather resignedly.

"Thanks," Edward said.

He did not want to be one of them.

"But I'll have to pass." With that, he pushed his chair back and stood up. Forgoing goodbyes, he turned and left the bar quickly.

For an awkward moment, the six remaining members of the Merlion Party exchanged glances. Havoc, ever the tactful one, broke the silence. "It was the eunuch comment," he said, pointing an accusing finger at Mustang. "You freaked him out."

"Please," Mustang said. "He knew I was joking."

"Why else would he run off like that?" Havoc asked.

Winry watched this exchange. Before she knew it, her eyes were welling with tears. She knew why he had left. Mustang and Havoc's bickering sounded asinine to her, and she decided to leave before they could see her crying.

With terse goodbyes and thanks for the beer, Winry stood up and followed Edward out the door.

Outside on the dark sidewalk, Winry looked right then left. Edward was already a distance away, sauntering through a pool of lamp light with his shoulders hunched and his hands shoved in his pockets.

"Edward!" Winry called as she broke into a run. He did not give a reaction. Even as Winry skidded to a walk at his side, Edward did not look up.

"Edward," she repeated. He continued you ignore her. "That was rude, you know? They were trying to be friendly."

"They can give their pity camaraderie to someone who wants it," he muttered, still watching the pavement.

"They don't feel sorry for you, Ed."

"Come on," he snapped, stopping abruptly. "A group of adults inviting a stupid kid like me to play cards with them? They feel sorry for me. They think I need their sympathy."

Winry frowned and came around to stand in front of him. "I think they think you need a friend." Her expression betrayed that she entirely agreed with them.

"I don't need their stupid friendship."

"Because they're in the military?" Winry asked. Edward refused to meet her eyes. "Because they're grown-ups? Why?"

"I wasn't expecting you to understand," Edward muttered, stepping around her and continuing on his way back toward the barracks where Al was resting.

"Or is it because you don't think you deserve it? Like how you don't think you deserve anything! Edward Elric, I'm talking to you!" Winry stood her ground and stomped her foot, her fists clenched.

"I haven't done anything," Edward muttered. He did not expect Winry to hear him, but he knew she had when she jogged up, seized his arm, and jerked him around to face her.

"Haven't done what?" she barked. Edward looked at her for a moment before rolling his eyes. He tugged his arm free and started walking again. Winry grabbed his sleeve and pulled him hard. "Haven't done what?" she asked more gently. "Haven't earned a friend? Or their respect?"

Edward shrugged. Winry wanted to slap him.

"Didn't you hear what all they said?"

He did not reply.

Winry felt her heart sinking. She was right then. "I thought you were very brave, Edward."

He scoffed and rolled his eyes, which seemed to be shining rather brightly in the lamplight. After clearing his throat, he replied, "I didn't do anything."

"You saved my life," she said simply. "That's something, right?"

Edward sniffed rather loudly and stepped away from her. "Right," he replied. "Look, I have to get up really early tomorrow. Don't drink too much and don't walk back to your hotel alone. Get Havoc to walk you."

"Okay."

"Goodnight."

"Edward," she said. He paused and looked back. "What time does your train leave?"

He considered telling her the wrong time but decided that he probably owed it to her to let her see him and his brother off. "Seven o'clock," Edward said. With that, he turned, thrusts his hands into his pockets, and stepped out of the light.

Winry waited and watched him moving from shadow to light and back to shadow before he took a turn and disappeared. Once he was gone, Winry went back into the bar, declared that she was tired, and asked someone to walk her to her hotel.


	16. Nostrum

A/N: Before I get complaints that this is too short, I occasionally like to write 100 word ficlets because they are very challenging for me. Same with... uh... whatever chapter that was. You know, the other one that was only 100 words long. To Brickwall, the last chapter was set after episode eight and in the middle of episode nine; Ed had already gotten his mission from Mustang, but he hadn't left yet. And I felt the chapter actually showed Ed's _im_maturity. He didn't blow up at Havoc because Havoc never called him short. I guess that was my logic. Okay, enough of that...

**  
XVI. Nostrum**

"Go to sleep," Pinako says, leaning on the doorframe.

"I'm fine," Winry replies.

"Your losing sleep isn't going to make him heal any faster."

"You don't know that."

Winry watches his hand as it clenches and releases. She wants to pick it up, cradle it, ease its tension. It's the only one he has left; he should take care of it. She should help him.

When Winry finally touches his hand, he feels damp and hot. She presses it between her own, and when she realizes that he is awake and watching her, she pretends to be taking his pulse.


	17. Another Day, Another Siege: This Machine

A/N: And I thought it was going to take me forever to write the next chapter. I wrote this thing in one sitting. For that reason, it is probably in dire need of a grammatical overhaul. Anyway, thanks for your patience. I know it's been a while.

**Warning: This chapter contains the f-word, which apparently is a sign of the Apocalypse, so read at your own risk! **

**XVII. Another Day, Another Siege: This Machine**

The installation did not go as well as I would have liked. In fact, I've never had a more terrifying attachment than this. I've certainly had ones that went worse – vomiting and bleeding and defecating – but this was the first one that truly shook me up.

The plug of an automail limb is like a key. The limb has to be specially designed to fit the port. The grooves and tongues on the inside of the port should line up with the tongues and grooves of the plug or the nerve link-ups in the port won't be able to transmit to the limb; I had Edward's port-signature inadvertently memorized. I could design a limb for him in my sleep, but attaching one was a different story. Edward clenched his jaw and dug his fists into the couch as I stuck my fingers gently into the socket, feeling for a specific groove that would help me line up the plug. The alignment of the knee was quite possibly the most important one in the body. Because of that, I just knew I was going to fuck it up.

"I'm sorry," I said as I cringed for him, brushing my fingers as softly as I could against the roof of the port. He made a sharp, slicing gesture with his right hand that I interpreted to mean, "Less talking and more getting your fingers out of me."

I tried not to watch his face, tense and focused and obviously in pain. Instead, I watched the yard and the shadows just beginning to creep out after noon. I should have attached the leg in the morning so he could have all day to recover, but I subconsciously put it off – there were dishes to do and rugs to beat. I never beat the rugs, but that morning, they seemed particularly filthy. I fixed my window by getting it stuck closed. I was tempted to ask Edward for his help again, but opted to avoid him by doing something else domestic and distracting. By noon, he was irritated and told me so. I didn't have a choice after that.

Edward twitched particularly hard as my fingers dipped into the furrow I was searching for. I muttered an apology and held my fingers there. With the foot resting on the floor, I positioned the leg at the mouth of the port, sure to line up the right tongue with the right groove. Edward breathed a long, deep sigh when I took my fingers out.

"How come Aunt Pinako never had to do that?" Edward asked tightly.

I frowned at him. "Because Grandma was a god among engineers," I snapped. "And I'm just a regular old mechanic. Quit whining." I thought, after speaking, that that was a pretty good cover.

It had not occurred to me that my fingers had sensitized him. It had not occurred to me to mention that I had used adapted receptors in this specific design, and that would heighten his ability to feel. It had not occurred to me, having not had a proper installation in his leg socket in years, the shock of the attachment would be greater for him. It had not occurred to me to warn Edward, and that was why I was just another mechanic and nowhere near the god Pinako was.

He turned eggshell white, just like the wall behind him. The moment he yelped, I knew I had done something wrong. He never yelped like that.

"Edward?" I asked. He doubled forward, clutching his thigh.

"_Edward_?"

He managed to turn his head toward me, tears gathering in his suddenly faded eyes.

I felt myself freeze, rooted to the floor. I wanted to reach out and hold his shoulders in case he fell over, but the message never made it to my arms. I remained riveted to that spot, staring as his eyes rolled back into his head. He crumbled with a heavy thud.

My hands flew to my mouth – I could move _now._ "Edward!" I cried.

Like he could answer me. God, I was an idiot.

Getting him onto the couch was much harder than I had predicted. For such a small guy, he weighed a lot. I felt awkward moving him like that. Picking him up, touching him all over. As frightened as I was that he was unconscious, it certainly made manhandling him much easier. At least, it made it less embarrassing.

I managed to lay him out on the couch. Once he was down, I sat at the end of the couch and rested his feet in my lap, hoping to revive him.

I didn't know what to do with my hands, sitting like that. Putting my palms on my knees felt awkward, but touching his ankles was intimate enough to make me blush and steal a glance at his tranquil face. I eventually settled on clasping my hands at my chest. I could stand that for only a moment before it felt too much like praying. I wasn't _that_ desperate; Edward would be laughing for days if he thought I had prayed for him.

"Oh, for the love of…" I muttered at my own nervousness. Setting my mouth firm, I made myself rest my hands on him, one on his ankle and another on his shin. I quickly moved my hands over to his metal leg – he would be less able to feel me that way. But the metal was cold under my hands and my sweaty palms against it made me squeamish. Automail had never had that effect on me before.

I looked up at his face, wondering what it was about his automail, what it was about _him _that made the idea of touching his skin more appealing than touching his metal. He didn't give me an answer, so I gingerly moved my hands back to his flesh.

His skin was cool from his plummeted blood-pressure and incredibly giving under my hands. I was used to feeling his metal, I had forgotten what the rest of him felt like.

I sensed myself light up with a blush. I hadn't touched him _that_ much. Nothing too memorable. In childhood, he hadn't been so avoidant. I could hug him and push him and pull him casually. I never used to think very much of it. Our parents often opted to save time or space or something and toss all three of us into the same bath or bed. There was nothing wrong with that.

I remembered when touching became a problem, though. Whether it was the transmutation or puberty or his determination – or a combination of the three – I wasn't sure. Whatever the reason, Edward did not want anyone's hands on him, and it seemed he wanted mine the least. Or maybe that was my imagination. It probably was.

My fingers betrayed me. They held their own little mutiny and began moving on their own. I wanted them to stop but didn't have the strength when I noticed the tight tendons in the back of Edward's foot. I traced them out to his toes, palpated the bumps of bones and the curves of joints. He felt like a machine, an expertly made, fully functional, perfectly efficient machine.

I was so embarrassed. I couldn't stop.

The short hairs on his shin felt soft as I brushed over them one way then the other. The muscle was hard even when relaxed, but still so pliable and growing warmer. My fingers crawled up to the back of his knee. I followed the hard ridge of one taut tendon, then the other. I went rigid and jerked my hands away when my knuckles brushed the hem of his boxers.

"Oh my god," I muttered, mortified with myself. I could just imagine him accusing me of molesting him in his sleep. Except he probably would not say, "molested." I assailed him, that's what he'd say.

I made my hands sit still, one laying over the other on his foot. I ignored the complicated mechanism of his ankle under my hands. I want to prod and palpate, but I just knew my investigation would dissolve into some kind of massage, stroking and rubbing and…

"Stop it," I snarled at myself. Edward was practically dead, and I couldn't stop thinking about touching him? Of all the times to melt into perversion!

I forced my eyes closed and calmed my fluttering heart. I felt my mind swept clean, but when I opened my eyes, my treacherous body had turned my treacherous head to look at his face.

And he was impossibly attractive. He was all those stupid, girlish things my friends had called him when asking why I hadn't jumped his bones when we were younger. I had laughed awkwardly and said he was like a brother.

Yeah. That was bull.

He was beginning to look like his father, all hard, masculine angles, scruffy but still sophisticated. The flesh hand I had placed on his stomach looked huge and sturdy and calloused like it had been working hard for all twenty years is had been in use, like a man's. Somewhere in the blur of passing days, he had grown up.

And I found myself floundering around at the same conclusion I always reached when I thought about him: somehow, he had grown up, and I had not. Our experiences weren't too terribly different, were they? We both survived losses and loneliness and abandonment. He wasn't that much older than me. We were both tough kids, determined and sometimes a little coarse because of it. What was it that kept me stuck? I hated being stuck.

Maybe I was just stupid, I reminded myself. That was always an option.

I turned back to his feet and plopped my hands down harder than I had intended.

"Ow," Edward said, his voice a bit strangled.

I gasped and jerked my hands away. "I'm so sorry!" I blurted.

"It's fine," he replied in the same tense voice.

I suddenly took his feet off my lap and moved to crouch by his head. "I'm really sorry, Edward," I said quietly. "I should have warned you that it might hurt more. I didn't…" I looked away shamefully. "It didn't even occur to me that you would be more sensitive."

"Don't worry about it."

"I didn't do my job right, Ed."

He lolled his head over to look at me. He gave me a face that said he was entirely unimpressed by my guilt. "I'm not dead. You obviously didn't screw up that badly." He winced as he turned his head back. "It still hurt like a motherfucker, though."

I laughed and looked down at my hands, my traitorous hands. I suddenly wanted to tell him how much I enjoyed touching him, how wonderful he felt. I hoped I wasn't blushing too vibrantly. Luckily, Edward had his eyes closed.

I tried to keep my mouth shut tight, but it somehow opened itself. Thankfully, I didn't spill about my hands all over him. Instead, I blurted, "I almost started praying."

He let out a curt laugh. "I must have really scared you," he said. "It would have been a waste anyway. God hates alchemists. He wouldn't let us perform alchemy if He didn't."

That made something in my chest pinch. I couldn't say why; Edward had never believed in any of that. It wasn't like he had lost something. It was sad, though, to think that he only had faith in the punishment. I had never really believed it all either, but somehow, after my brief exploration of him, I felt like there might be something. I mean, Edward fit together so well. Just his foot, his wonderful foot felt so complicated and intricate. If there was a God, She was a mechanic. And a damn good one, too.

I felt myself brushing Edward's bangs away from his clammy forehead. I felt myself standing up, sitting on the couch, lifting Edward's head, and laying it on my thigh.

His brow furrowed before he opened his eyes and stared up at me. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"You looked tense," I replied absently. I ran my hand through his bangs again.

"I don't think that's going to help."

I shrugged. "I might. You don't know that."

As I dragged my fingernails across his scalp, I understood why Edward's automail felt odd under my fingers. All along, under my desire to just be around him, was this silly, girlish urge to touch him unabashedly. That's why he had felt so wonderful. I must have been starving for it. I supposed that meant I was lusting or something, and that was never good. Then again, if God really were a mechanic, She would understand entirely the beauty of a really well made machine.


	18. Girls?

A/N: This is silly. Silly silly silly. By the way, do they even once mention Al's birthday in the anime? Oh, wait, they do that one time when Ed talks about Den and the cake, but do we ever see Al celebrating a birthday? Poor kid.

**XIIX. Girls?**

"Civilians are not allowed in the barracks. Girls are not allowed in the men's dorms. You, Winry, are both a civilian _and_ a girl! Did you not notice the soldiers with guns as you were sneaking down the hall?"

Winry felt herself blush. "I actually came in through the air vent." She pointed to the grate in ceiling. "I jumped down in the bathroom next door."

"What?" Edward exclaimed. "You are going to get me in so much trouble!"

"Don't be silly," Winry said, giving Edward a dismissive wave. "I'll get in trouble before you do."

"Who would believe that? That you snuck yourself in? You've got to leave before anyone sees you!" Edward grabbed Winry's shoulders and began scooting her to the door.

"They're less likely to see her if she stays inside," Alphonse pointed out. "No guards in here."

Edward spun around. "You, too? You know what Mustang would say if they found a _girl_ in my room?" Winry blushed even brighter. "He'd never let me live it down! She can sneak out just as easily as she snuck in. No one can pin her on me if they don't find her here." With one hand wrapped firmly around Winry's upper arm and one hand on the doorknob, Edward threw open the door and readied to sling her out.

He froze, however, when he saw a fellow soldier at the end of the hall just beginning to look over. With a yelp, Edward slammed the door closed and put his back to it. "All right, plan B," he said.

"Edward!" Winry protested.

"Out the window!" Ed declared. "You can climb down the drainpipe."

"Brother!"

"Just run like hell through the courtyard once you get down. Don't stop until—"

"Edward!" both Winry and Alphonse cried simultaneously.

"What!" he snapped, his hands on the windowpane.

"Don't you even want to know why I came all the way out here?" Winry asked, planting her hands on her hips exasperatedly.

Edward blinked. "Why?"

Winry grinned and spun around the face Alphonse. She excitedly thrust her hand into her pocket, pulled out her closed fist, and threw a thin handful of colorful confetti into the air. She let it flutter down weakly before crying out, "Happy Birthday, Al! I would have had more confetti, but it fell out of my pocket in the vent."

"It is my birthday, isn't it?" he asked.

Winry rolled her eyes. "Don't tell me you forgot your own birthday," she said. Alphonse looked sheepish. "This is an important one, too. You're a teenager now!"

"Thirteen's not that great," Edward muttered from the window, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Time to start worrying about _girls_," Winry said with an impish grin. Al tensed up, his metal shoulders rising. Were he able, he would have blushed. "Don't ask you brother for advice. He doesn't know the first thing; apparently, he likes to throw girls out windows."

"Hey! He's my little brother; it's my job to give him advice. And _you're_ the only girl I've tried to throw out a window!"

Winry flipped her hair over her shoulder and turned back to Al. "_Anyway, _if you have any questions, I'll be happy to answer them." Alphonse opened his mouth to squeeze a word in edgewise, but Edward was quick to interject.

"Don't listen to her, Al," Edward said nudging her aside. "She doesn't know anything about girls either."

"Maybe you didn't notice, Ed," Winry snapped, pushing him back. "I am a girl!"

"Really?" Ed said, feigning surprise. "I must have forgotten with all the breaking and entering that you do."

"I didn't break anything!"

"But you entered, and that's just as bad!"

Winry scowled. "Are you trying to ruin Al's birthday for him?"

"Yeah!" Al chirped. "It's _my _birthday! Did you get me anything?"

The room grew very quiet as Edward felt the weight of two pairs of accusing eyes. He searched his mind for anything of his to which he was not too terribly attached. When nothing came to mind, Ed instead opted to simply fake it. He was very good at that. "I'm giving you all the brotherly advice on girls you could possibly want!" Edward said triumphantly.

Winry broke into a guffaw. While doubled over and slapping her knee, she managed to choke out, "Oh yeah, Ed. Give him something right now. I can't wait to hear this!"

Edward felt himself at a loss again. Honestly, what did he know about girls? He would have, however, been able to think of something more helpful if it were not for Winry's howling laughter at his expense. He glared at her for a moment before grinning up at Al and improvising, "Trespassing is not a good quality in a girl. Not cute at all. And neither is being obsessed with not-_girly_ things like," Edward turned his head dramatically toward Winry, "_machinery_."

Winry got very quiet and stood up straight. Al took a step back while Ed stood his ground, grinning. "Here's some good advice, Al," Winry growled through her teeth as she glared at Ed. "There's no such thing as a girl who likes short boys."

For a moment, all was still and silent except the grinding of Edward's teeth. "Keep that in mind, Al," Winry said finally. "We especially hate the really whiny, violent ones with _girly_ haircuts."

Winry did not have time to run. There was nowhere for her to hide. She tried to dart away but could not avoid being blindsided by one short, violent alchemist with a girly haircut. She squealed and began to kick as Edward threw her over his shoulder and charged toward the door.

Just as Ed approached the door, the handle turned. "Hey, Ed," Havoc began as he swung the door wide. "Breda and me are going—"

The air became thick and still, and no one breathed. Havoc stood, leaning forward through the doorway, his hand still on the knob and his cigarette balancing precariously on his lower lip. He stared at Ed, who was petrified before him, holding someone in a short skirt and white panties over his shoulder.

Suddenly, Winry grabbed Ed's back for leverage and craned her head around over his other shoulder. She made eye contact with Havoc before squeaking, losing her grip on Ed's shirt, and flopping out of sight.

After a few tense seconds, Havoc closed the door with a _whoosh_. He then reopened it a moment later, a quizzical expression on his face. "That's a girl, isn't it?" Havoc asked, pointing to Winry's upturned butt.

"No," Edward replied promptly.

"Then what is it?"

Edward scrambled for something. "My mechanic."

"But she's a girl, isn't she?"

"Uh… yes?'

"Okay, just checking." Havoc swung the door closed. His mischievous laughter trailed down the hall after him, clearly audible to Edward, his brother, and the _girl_.

An awkward silence passed before Alphonse began to snort from holding in his own laughter.

Winry gave Edward an elbow to the back of his head and snapped, "Between you and chivalry, Edward, you are _so_ much deader."


	19. Another Day, Another Siege: Peach Juice

A/N: Does anyone know how Edward's hometown is supposed to be spelled? Rizembul? Risemburg? I'm sure I've spelled it a gajillion different ways. Oh well. Artistic License.**  
**

**XIX. Another Day, Another Siege: Peach Juice**

I was expecting the tingles of ischemia in my left foot. I was expecting something gross and sweet like him drooling on my thigh. I was not expecting but rather hoping that maybe we, in that romance novel state of sleep where people's true intentions come out – that state doesn't exist, by the way – would have wrestled each other down to the couch, and I would wake up pressed inch for inch against him.

Yeah. I would laugh at me, too.

Instead, I woke up to something thumping around in my kitchen, something sizzling in a skillet, and something hollering, "Hey, wake up, Win. What do you want in your omelet?"

I lumbered into the kitchen, wearing the same clothes I was wearing the night before and not really caring. Edward was dressed and poking at a canary yellow omelet with my spatula.

"You're making me breakfast?" I asked, rubbing my eyes.

"I'm making _me_ breakfast," he replied without looking at me. "But, stove's on and the eggs are out. Thought I'd offer."

I smiled but didn't tell him that he hadn't offered. "Sure," I said. So, I brewed a pot of stiff coffee, and Edward made us matching omelets, and we sat down for a tandem breakfast.

"How's the leg?" I said, warming my hands around my mug.

"Sore," he said around a mouthful. He swallowed and finished, "But functional."

"Good," I said. "I've got errands to run, and I can't carry you around all day." Never mind that I'd never really had to carry him around before. Never mind that I hadn't made any plans yet. Never mind that having to help him around for a day actually sounded a little appealing.

When Edward asked me what I had planned, I had to come up with something very quickly. Oh, I need more seven-sixteenth washers and thirteen gauge copper wire, why do you ask? He said we were out of eggs.

To my surprise, he then asked me if I wanted company. My heart started fluttering in my throat, and I almost accepted right there. Luckily, I stumbled over the trip wire on my mechanic instinct before I could hit the one on my girl trigger.

"You can't walk that far yet," I said firmly. God forbid I give him the impression that I actually wanted him around.

"Well, I'm not going to sit around here alone all day. And I can walk just fine. I've been walking around all morning."

I really wanted him to come with me. Actually, I really wanted to know what would happen if he came with me. If I liked the result, then the trip might be good exercise. If I ended up making an idiot of myself, then it was too dangerous. I was sorely tempted to tell him to keep himself company, but I knew what Edward would say and I could probably guess how I would react. So I made a big show of caving and agreed.

We left a little after ten, once I had bathed and dressed. I had this new dress, a sweet little apricot thing with princess seams and a hem a good couple of fathoms above the knee. I had wanted to show it off and what better opportunity than a bright, breezy day with Edward as my audience? It occurred to me, when Edward and I were about a quarter of a mile from the end of my drive, that my dress was still hanging in my closet, and I was in the pants I used to wear when I bathed Den and a t-shirt Alphonse had forgotten when he left for Dublith.

I looked down at myself and laughed.

"What's so funny?" Edward asked.

I shook my head. "I am," I said. "I really dressed up, didn't I?"

Ed shrugged. "It's only the market."

And I realized, with some degree of relief, that it was.

-  
-  
-

I thought I was going to have to trick Edward into letting me buy him something to snack on, he was so adamant about refusing my money. Luckily, we passed a fruit stand where the merchant was munching loudly and juicily on an apple. That seemed to convince Ed, and I bought him an apple and a peach for myself.

The walk to my favorite hardware store was a long one. Through the market, past a couple of hungry looking projects, into the city – if you could actually call Rizembul a city. On the corner of Third and Magnolia, I stopped into a little café to borrow some napkins for my runny peach. The employees there were stingier than I had expected, and since coffee and peaches do not go together, I stormed back outside – still dripping stubbornly with peach juice – and flopped down next to Edward where he was warming a bench.

"Something wrong?" he asked. He was trying not to laugh at me and doing a conspicuously poor job of it.

"Nope. Nothing," I snapped before sinking my teeth brusquely into my swollen peach. I could feel rivulets of juice running down my chin and wrist, leaving sticky-sweet trails. I imagined I looked rather like a pouting child, eating my peach out of spite now. All I wanted was a damn napkin.

A refractory drip fell from my chin before I could stop it. It landed with a sugary splat on my sternum, just above the lip of my v-neck shirt. I sighed angrily and looked down. "Damn it all," I grumbled. I looked over at Edward and said, "They couldn't even spare one stupid napkin!"

I didn't actually finish the sentence. I stopped somewhere around _even_ and didn't bother to finish. Now, if I had any skill with boys, any semblance of tactic or expertise or _something_, I wouldn't bumble and fall out of myself when I caught one staring at my chest. I would smile smugly and say something clever and confident like I was so used to the attention. Oh, _those_ old things? I get that all the time!

However, since I'm me – damn my luck – my mouth hung open like a choking fish, and I blushed so dark that the drop of juice of my chest turned from coward yellow to hot-and-bothered orange.

Edward made a noise I hadn't heard him make since we were kids and became very interested in the flaking green paint on the bench.

We blushed in time like the good old days. "You're a mess," he said abruptly. He looked back at me, still red, with a really determined look on his face. Were I not still stuck on _Oh my God, he was looking at my boobs, _I would have thought it was really sweet.

Edward pulled his left hand into his sleeve and swiped at my sticky mouth with his cuff. I got the impression that he was trying to do this from as far away as he could.

And with that, I felt the playing field leveled. It was so simple, so quick and easy – it sounds really stupid, I know – but just knowing that there was something there, something that might make my plight seem a little less desperate made me a little more confident. Edward was totally staring at me. Even though he was a boy – man, whatever – and boys were supposed to stare at girls, it felt like some kind of phenomenon. And _I_ had caused it.

While Edward scrubbed briefly at my mouth, I screwed up my face and pulled away. "Thanks, Mom," I drawled.

He laughed nervously, and I took the wheel.

"Come on," I said, standing up. I grabbed his now damp sleeve and pulled him up with me. " I want to pick up that wire before they close for lunch." I tossed my almost finished peach into a trashcan and dragged Edward down Magnolia.

-  
-  
-

I had forgotten just how long the walk to McIntyre's Hardware was, and somewhere between the train station and my old pediatrician's office, I started to feel a little awkward pulling Edward by the wrist. A few people had tossed us odd looks, but I was not entirely sure if it was because of my death grip on Edward or because they recognized him. Whatever the reason, I thought I'd better let go of him. Then I thought about the bony bump on his wrist that pressed into my palm. I thought about the soft pulse under my fingertips. I thought about the way he tensed up when I took a step a little to the right and brushed against him. And before I knew it, I had wrapped my arm around his and was smiling like an idiot.

I felt him glancing at me out of the side of his eye.

"What?" I said.

He looked away with a frown. "Nothing."

"Good." I meant to say it to myself. I really did.

In case I was worrying that Edward was being uncharacteristically gentlemanly, he waited for me to open the door to McIntyre's. It made sense, though. I was closer to the door. He did sort of catch it once I had opened it, though. That was almost holding it open.

I would love to say that I didn't ditch Edward as soon as I went into the hardware store. Maybe I would sound less puerile, less open to being distracted by the next shiny thing on the street. If I owed Edward anything, I owed him attention. Him. As in Edward. Not Edward's automail, but Edward.

So, I ditched him as soon as I went into the hardware store. Mr. McIntyre saw me and mentioned the newest prototype for synthetic muscle that he was beta testing for the manufacturer. Between dizzying babble about the pros and cons of steel sarcomeres versus the current pulley-and-spring system, Edward disappeared. I couldn't blame him.

The funny thing about regret is that regret itself is not that bad. You did something you weren't supposed to, and you wish you could go back and fix it. That certainly doesn't feel pleasant, but it's not _that_ bad. Okay, what if you did something you weren't supposed to, but you really enjoyed doing it? And you actually ended hurting someone by doing it. And it didn't even occur to you that it would hurt anything. And you can't even understand why it hurt someone until you remember that it's been done to you so many times, and you realize what a hypocrite you are. And now you feel _really _bad about it. It's the shame that gets you. Regret is nothing compared to that.

Edward didn't give me a hard time about it when I caught up with him outside Dr. Scovall's office. I expected some bitter silent treatment or something, but instead he was resigned, sighing and conceding. He didn't give me any funny looks when I linked arms with him again; he took the shopping bag filled with things I didn't really need from my arm and carried it for me.

"Do you remember when my mom tried to get Alphonse and me to catch chicken pox from you?" he asked, watching the wind chimes hanging from the corner of the clinic's awning.

I laughed. "And it landed you in the hospital for a week?" It wasn't funny. Why was I laughing? I cried for the entire week; I thought I had killed him.

"Feels like lifetimes ago, now," he remarked distantly.

"It was." Or, at least for him, it was; Edward changed lives every few years. I was still in that life, still that nine-year-old girl. Clumsy. Determined. Terribly uncomfortable in my skin.

And I was still sticky with peach juice, damn it.

I pulled Edward's arm closer, and he didn't seem to mind. "You ready to head back?" I asked.

"Yeah. Don't forget the eggs."

-  
-  
-

When we got back to my house, we'd been enjoying each other's quiet for almost a quarter of an hour. Or rather, I'd been enjoying his arm, and he had been enjoying my quiet. The house was very still, almost sleepy, and neither of us – either consciously or unconsciously – wanted to disturb that. I sloughed my coat and offered to take Edward's, too. He seemed to deliberate for a moment before shrugging out of it and passing it to me. I threw both our coats over my arm and headed into the foyer toward the hall closet.

"You want to start some water for tea?" I called over my shoulder. His reply was garbled but affirmative, and I could hear him shuffling around the cabinets for the kettle.

In the hall, I opened the closet door and reached for a hanger. I put up my coat first, straightening it so it balanced on the hanger. Edward's coat was heavier, and when I tried to even it out on the hanger, one shoulder slipped off and the whole thing fell to a pile on the floor. I gave a frustrated snort and stooped to pick up the coat. With more care, I righted the coat on the hanger and stashed the whole thing in the closet.

Without the vaguest sense of triumph, I closed the closet door and started toward the kitchen. Then something on the floor caught my eye, and when I looked down, I saw a folded rectangle of paper.

I knew immediately that it fell out of Edward's pocket, and if I had had any dignity, I would have picked it up and put it back in his coat without reading it.

But I read it anyway. Of course I read it. Of course I picked it up, heart fluttering, wondering if it was a note from someone or a receipt or a doodle, hoping it had something to do with me.

It didn't. It was a train ticket to Central.

He was departing on the fifteenth. And in my surprise and guilty heartache, it took me nearly a minute to remember that it was the fourteenth.


	20. The Votary

A/N: Wow. Thanks for the reviews, guys. I'm sure there were questions I intended to answer here, but I've forgotten them all. So sorry. Oh by the way, **we have officially achieved "M" status. Lots of good ol' fashioned profanity in this chapter.  
**

**XX. The Votary**

I don't know why she's still standing. She's looking out at the street, probably straining to hear the last of metal feet clanking away on the sidewalk. I wish she'd just sit down already. Not that I'm particularly interested in having her sit next to me, but at least it would make me feel less like shit for a brother for not standing, too.

I steal a glance at up her face; she's crying. Yeah, like she has any right to be crying. It's not her brother. It's not her problem. Who is she to be getting all misty? I look back down at my feet and wonder if _thinking_ really selfish things is any less selfish than _doing_ really selfish things.

"What would make him think that?" she asks before squatting down next to me, her hands still on the railing.

I'm torn between telling her that I'm the cause and being silent. "I don't know," I lie because I don't feel like explaining to Winry just how terrible a person I am. I also don't think she'd want to hear about a seven foot tall, bear-human-thing lumbering around in the underbelly of a conspiracy, who conveniently shared his plans for cooking up another sentient being from his own memories just when Alphonse was beginning to question.

She's looking at me, and I'm making a point not to look back. "You're bleeding," she says.

"I know," I say. I've been swallowing it for the past five minutes, and my stomach is not happy about it.

"Edward," she begins.

I _really_ don't want her to say anything. I don't want her to apologize or question or comfort. If she starts, she will expect me to finish, and I honestly have nothing to say.

"Why don't we go inside?" she suggests.

I feel a flash of something defensive. Why didn't she try to apologize or question or comfort me like I don't want her to?

"Fine," I say. She helps me up, and that makes me defensive, too. She leads the way back down to my room, where she says she's going to find a nurse or something to look at my face. She leaves just in time for me to run to the bathroom next door and vomit up all the dry, insipid hospital food I had eaten for lunch.

-

-

-

I wish I had a book. The silent movies playing in my head are particularly loud now, and I need something to distract me. Usually conversation works, but no one is in my room, and I don't want to talk anyway. A good, innocuous book won't seek replies, won't stare at me blankly when I don't give them, won't attempt to keep me company.

Won't accuse me of atrocities I could never commit. Won't look at me with a frozen face filled with pleas. Won't remind me why I didn't lay down in front of murderer – I know I had a reason. I _know_ I did. Won't tell me again and again that it is worth it, that resignation is not an option.

I grab the bottle of milk on my tray with breakfast and heave it across the room. It hits the wall and shatters, and by the time the nurse hurries in, I've already laid down with my back to the door.

-

-

-

Denny Bloche, possibly the _last_ person I wanted to talk to, struts into my room as Winry is storming out. She's pissed at me because I wouldn't talk to her. She should be grateful.

He gets this stupid look on his face as his eyes follow her out and down the hall. Then he looks back at me with an even more stupid grin like he's just cracked some inside joke. Like a girl in a short skirt is ubiquitous guy-solidarity. I can't help but snort and look out the window.

"Cheer up, sir," Bloche says. I'm glad he's posing in the doorway – I'd hate to have to pay for his dental repairs if he got any closer. I'm hoping my silence is dropping enough hints. Apparently, it's not. "With a mechanic like that, it can't be all that bad." He pokes a thumb in her direction over his shoulder.

If I were feeling like talking, I would tell him to go lose his limbs somewhere and have her as a mechanic himself. See how he likes it. Yeah, try growing up with her. Try having her nag you and berate you and worry about you all the fucking time. I'd give up my other arm just to get her to leave sometimes. Try having her know every button you have, every scar you ever put on yourself.

"I tell you what," Bloche goes on. "When I was sixteen—"

"I don't care, Bloche," I say sharply.

He blinks at me owlishly. "What? Are you still hung up about your brother, sir?"

Am I hung up? _Am I hung up?_

"He probably just needs some time to think, sir. My brother and I fought like this all the time, but we're still friends."

Yeah, well, you didn't condemn your brother to a potential lifetime in entirely sensory-interrupted incarceration. I did. So, shut up. We're nothing alike.

"Al doesn't have it that great, though, does he?" Bloche says, obviously intent on digging his own grave.

"No, he doesn't," I reply sardonically. "Do you think you could possibly take your mindless babble somewhere else?"

He grins that idiot grin, and I can tell he's thinking of finding and inflicting himself on Winry.

I have this instinctive response when it comes to just about all things Winry. I've had it since I was a kid, and it fires right now. It's not protective or territorial or anything like that. It's just a flicker of regret, I guess. It's quick, like a trick knee, then it's gone, but in that second, I want to tell him to back the fuck off her. But not in a protective, territorial way.

-

-

-

I've transmuted the bedspread and sheets into a rope. My swollen cheek hasn't gone down enough for me to really see out of one eye, and I stop, straddling the windowsill, wondering how much I want to try the climb without my depth perception.

Winry picks right then to walk in, and I almost kick myself for hesitating.

"What do you think you're doing?" she asks, putting her hands on her hips.

I look up toward the ceiling. "I'll give you three guesses."

"Your doctor hasn't discharged you yet, Edward," Winry informs me sternly.

"You think I'd be climbing out the window if I thought he had?" I ask. Most of the time, I don't really intend to make her angry. It just sort of happens. Of course, I do know I'm being an asshole. But, what is she honestly expecting?

"Quit being stupid, Ed," she says. "You can't leave; you're not well enough yet. And how did you get your clothes back?"

I pulled rank on a nurse, but I don't want to tell her that. "I've got more important things to do then lay around all day," I snap.

"More important than healing?"

"I can walk and heal at the same time."

She rolls her eyes dramatically and stomps over to the window. She looks over the sill, eyeing my makeshift rope, while I willfully ignore that her hip just brushed my knee. Fucking guy-solidarity.

"I bet you think you're really clever, don't you?" she asks tartly, tugging the rope. It's tied to the leg of the hospital bed I've transmuted to the floor.

I kind of do until she says that. "You're wasting my time, Winry."

"You just don't get it, do you Edward?" she snaps.

"What is there to get? Alphonse is wandering around Central all by himself, thinking he's not real. There's nothing else to fucking get than that!" I don't usually use profanity with her. I can tell it frightens her, and I sigh brusquely.

"Edward!" she barks before grabbing my arm and pulling me back inside. "You don't see," she growls as I fight against her. She eventually wins because I am still bandaged up under my clothes and I haven't eaten since the lunch I lost the day before.

I fight all the way down, and with not much dignity, pull my arm away from her once we're both sitting on the floor. She glares hard, and I see she's starting to cry. "If you keep wearing yourself down, you won't have anything left to give Alphonse!"

"By then I'll have reached my goal!" I yell at her face.

"Not if you fall out a stupid window and break your neck! Not if you run out before you can do anything! You're not invincible!" She gets on her knees so she is taller than me.

I've already heard this from Ross. That speech was easier to tolerate; this one just insults me.

"You think I'd give up before I got Al back?" I say, getting on my knees too.

She throws her hands up and stands. "I'm not talking about _giving up_." She's crying now. She knows I can't stand it when she does that, but she does it anyway just to be oppositional. She stands absolutely still in the middle of the floor, scowling at me.

I snort. "You think I'm going to die?" I ask mockingly. I see her seethe.

"Yes!" she cries. "That's what people do when they get hurt badly enough! You used to know that. You're not immortal." I want her to stop right there because I know what she's going to ask next. I glare back at her, thinking that might be enough to shut her up. "When did you start thinking you were indestructible?"

I stand up loudly, trying not to wince. "When I figured out there was something more important than me."

"And what is that? Alphonse?" she asks shrilly. She says his name so severely, almost resentfully, and I give her my most appalled expression.

She turns away and heads toward the door before pivoting and rounding on me again. "When did you stop giving a shit about anything but Alphonse?"

I fire back, "How about I just quit now? Move back to Rizembul. Live a happy little life with you and Pinako and my _tin can_ brother?" I can't believe I've said it until it's already out.

She's quiet for a second. "That's not what I'm saying at all."

I don't give her the chance to continue. "_You_ don't get it, Winry. He's not your brother."

I should have been expecting it. My impulsivity and Winry's violence mix too well. Before I know it, she slaps me so hard I almost lose my balance. It's a full-armed swing across the same cheek Alphonse had hit.

"Edward Elric!" she says through clenched teeth. Her breathing is strangled. I look up at her, too proud to admit that I deserved that. "I _hate_ you with _every_ _ounce_ of me."

That is such a stupid, trite thing to say. I want to tell her that, but she storms out before the bright white pain can fade. So banal is her insult that I stagger over to the bed and sit down heavily, where I linger over it until a nurse ambles by and orders me back into bed.

-

-

-

I don't bother pretending to sleep anymore. The nurse patrol meanders by, looking through the window in the door unsympathetically. I look back at her, and she hurries along.

It was just the right time of night for the moon to hang in my window. The room is almost as bright as day. But this light is cold. I feel somehow affirmed.

I hear the hinges on the door squeak. I look over and catch Winry halfway in the room, cringing at the sound. I don't want to admit it, even to myself, but I already know we've silently established an armistice. That was about as close to trading apologies as we ever got.

She's got in her hand a plate with what appears to be a slice of my day old birthday cake on it. I look out the window to ignore her, so she comes around the creaky hospital bed and sits between the window and me. I keep on ignoring her, so she makes herself cozy, elbowing me aside so she can lean back against the pillow.

"Here," she whispers, pushing a fork into my hand.

"What makes you think I wanna eat old cake?" I hiss at her. It's a façade now. She knows it, too. I can tell because she gives me that stupid I-know-that's-a-façade smile.

"How did you get in here, anyway?" I ask quietly as I resignedly poke at the cake she's holding between us.

Winry shovels a piece into her mouth and says, "I snuck in."

I don't ask how she got into a military hospital after visiting hours; that way I won't have to lie when they ask me later.

"The nurse isn't going to swing back for another forty-five minutes or so. I've got plenty of time."

We polish off the one piece quickly and silently. Even aged, Gracia's cake is the best. Winry takes the forks and plate and sets them aside. I know she's going to start talking to me about things I don't want to talk about, but I've nowhere to run.

"I've been thinking," she begins as predicted. "Well… I don't know what impression I've given you, but… I really want Alphonse back, too. I never meant to make it sound like I didn't."

There's a good reply for that, but I don't have it. "I don't think that." I don't mean half the stuff I say to her, especially the insults. I thought she knew that.

"You don't?" she asks, suddenly higher pitched and hopeful.

"No." I watch my feet.

"I'm glad," she replies. "I mean, I don't know how siblings really are. The closest I have is you. You and Alphonse. And I…" She looks out the window, and I know she's getting ready to drop some emotional girl-bomb on me. "I understand that I'm not in danger, and I'm not really suffering. Not like Alphonse is. No one's in it like Al is, so he really deserves it. Your determination, I mean. He deserves your devotion."

I think she's telling me that she was jealous. And it makes some sense. A little. We, the three of us, we always were a little trichotomy growing up. It wasn't until Al and I picked up the serious alchemy and the subsequent arrogance that she really took a step back.

Maybe, I'd feel better about it if I had missed her. I think about that reflex and how it wasn't really about missing her as much as it was missing what she used to mean. Winry sort of represented a life with all my limbs and Al in the flesh. She took me back every time. That also meant she went against pretty much everything I'd been training myself to believe about moving forward. There wasn't anything left of then but her.

I feel a dull weight on my automail hand. I look down and see her hand on top of mine. I sort of pretend she's not doing it, but it doesn't help. She picks up my hand and holds it against her solar plexus.

My chest tightens, and I feel this humiliating, nervous squeak creeping up my throat. I swallow it down hard. It's just Winry, after all.

"We'll all be together in the end, don't you think?" she asks ruefully.

I've never been good at lying to her. "I'm not sure."

"Hmm," she mutters before dropping her head on my shoulder. I have to swallow really hard this time.

I don't look at her face, and that somehow makes me look at her legs instead. She's got these sugar cube legs in this light, sort of bent up and leaning together and looking exponentially closer than they had just a second ago.

Look at all the supremely more important things I should be thinking about, and I feel like shit because Al deserves to be more than a distraction from some girl, even if it is _this_ girl. And despite that, she's sighing and breathing so damn loud. I think her perfume is too strong until I remember that Winry doesn't wear perfume.

There's something I should be doing right now. I know there is.

"They're gonna find me soon," she says.

And I will spend every minute until then in self-deprecating silence.

"I talked to Mr. Hughes, you know? He's getting you discharged in the morning. We'll look then," she says. "I'll help you."

Part of me wants to yell at her for interfering. Yeah, like my out-the-window plan was going to get me far. But this other part wants to grab her hand back and keep her here, maybe hide her under the bed until the nurse has passed. But, still, all of me knows that if Al deserves better than my distraction – which he does – then she certainly does, too.

I kind of squeeze her hand to get her attention and tell her she should leave before she gets us both in trouble. She agrees without argument, probably because she's tired. She promises to meet me outside after all the paperwork is done and I'm free to go, says goodnight, and slips out with the same loud, squeaky hinges she had when she slipped in.


	21. The Alchemologist I

A/N: Your patience is much appreciated. Between two jobs and enough laziness for at least three other people, it's a wonder I get around to feeding myself. However, I do, and fanfiction comes in at a very close fourth on my list of priorities, just after bathing daily.

**XXI. The Alchemologist I:  
The Art of Stasis**

For the most part, I think I'm a good person. I think I am. I'm sure I subconsciously picture myself as some kind of martyr, making sacrifice after sacrifice, giving all me and more for the good of someone else. That's the only rational I have for feeling victimized when I don't get my way. Like I've given so much, when do I get to cash in and receive that reward?

And either there is no reward, or I'm not the philanthropist I think I am. Or both.

I pressed the train ticket between my fingers, feeling my pulse thudding through my hand and my chest. I could have torn it up and gone about my business, pretended like I never saw it.

Why wasn't I good at it yet? At letting go? Wasn't I practiced enough, versed enough? I should be a pro. I've been doing for years. Nobody knew the back end of a train, the Doppler Effect, the home remedy for removing dust and tears like I did.

I wanted to start crying right there. I probably would have been better off if I had. Instead, I sucked it up, pressed my lips tight, and walked rigidly toward the kitchen where Edward was waiting over a kettle.

He was leaning against the counter leisurely, arms and ankles crossed, nice and concise. He reminded me a rope, tied and wrapped up around it's itself, and I remembered reading this article about piles of rope and hay catching fire all by themselves. The article said the weight of the pile heats up the inside so much that is eventually explodes. For the first time in a while, I decided to ignore the weight that Edward carried around, and I didn't care that he was probably burning up inside all the time.

That didn't give him the right.

I thought I would be subtler, more effective if I were quiet and controlled. But since I'm never that schooled, Edward knew immediately. I knew he knew. Of course he would know! I'm a book and he's a genius who could read backwards, forwards, or in Ishballan. He didn't look apprehensive, though, and that made me even angrier.

"Were you going to mention leaving or just—"

"Winry," he began.

"_Were you going_ to tell me or were you just going to sneak out?" I asked. I noticed how I articulated everything; my _t's_ were sharp, my _s's_ hissed.

"You're making sneaking out sound really appealing right now," he replied lazily, watching my olive colored kettle on the stove.

"How about you burn down my house, too, before you go? You know, for tradition's sake?"

That got a reaction out of him. Edward glared at me, a ropey muscle in his jaw standing out. He was holding himself still, coiled tight and smoldering.

He hardily moved his mouth at all when he replied. "I don't know what you were _expecting_ me to do, Winry."

"Have the decency to tell me, maybe?"

"You figured it out, didn't you?"

I slammed my open hand down on the kitchen table between us. The train ticket felt damp and hot under my palm, and it only got hotter when I pushed it across the table toward him. "It doesn't take a rocket scientist, Edward."

He stared at the ticket for a moment before giving the most appalled expression I'd seen in a while. "You went through my pockets?" he barked, charging toward me and snatching the ticket off the table. "You've got a lot of nerve!"

I should have been ashamed. If _I_ had any decency, I would have been ashamed. "You don't think I have a right to know?"

"You don't have the right to go through my shit!" And since we were pulling up issues that should have been expunged, he added, "But it's never stopped you before, has it?"

I ground my teeth together. "Oh, am I exposing another _dirty_, little secret of yours? Are you that ashamed of leaving me? Of running away? I'm surprised." I was using this high-pitched, girlish voice that I used to pull out when we were kids, when I was teasing him.

As if we weren't already proving it, I remember and ignored that I… that _things_ never really change.

Ed shoved the ticket into his pocket, his face starting to redden. "In case you haven't noticed, Winry, you're not all that high on my list of priorities. Keeping you company out here in East Bumblefuck isn't my responsibility. Give me _one_ a good reason to stay."

Even if I had one to given, I wouldn't have been able to. I was frozen. My heart beat hard against my ribs, but the rest of me was still. _I'm not high on his list. _That shouldn't have surprised me.

The kettle on the stove was emitting a thin stream of steam through the spout. Edward cut a rigid path around the table and came to stand directly in front of me. I was eye-to-eye with his nose for a moment before glaring up into his eyes.

_I'm not high on his list. _It felt like a catchy radio jingle stuck in my head.

"Al's out there somewhere, human and probably trying to get me back," Edward explained firmly. "Do you understand that this is what I've been trying to do since I was _ten_?"

"Yes," I said, trying to sound angry and solid.

"Do you understand that the _only_ thing I've thought about for the last _decade_ is in my reach?"

"Yes," I said. The steam pouring out of the kettle was steadier than I was.

"Then why can't you wrap your little mind around why I have to leave?"

My little mind.

I'm not high on his list.

The only thing he'd thought about…

I felt muscles all over my body tightening, twisting taut. In the background, a faint whistle was building louder, signaling teatime.

"Edward," I began, but all I actually said was the _w_ and last _d_.

Deep in my chest, a muscle was clenching tight, folding in on itself like a charred scrap of paper. I thought I could feel my edges starting to crinkle, to curl. The kettle began to scream.

I made myself look at him, watch his eyes. He was looking back at me unrelentingly.

And the muscle behind my sternum – pulled so taut – snapped, burst, broke.

I heard myself gasp. "I don't want you to go," I sobbed. I didn't realize I had thrown myself against him until I was breathing in his shirt and, inadvertently, his smell. "I know I've been a nightmare this whole time."

I felt him sigh more than I heard it. "You haven't been a nightmare," he said resignedly.

This was what I was afraid of. I would start crying and never stop. "I have been a nightmare. I've been stupid and childish and I wasted all this time." I felt like something was pressing behind my face, pushing to get out with the snot and tears.

"Only a little," Edward reassured in his clumsy style, trying to be comforting and detached at the same time. "You got my arm done eventually."

I pulled away and wiped my leaky nose with the back of my wrist as I sniffed wetly. "That's not what I'm talking about," I said. My vocal cords felt thin and sinewy, and my voice sounded distant and strangled. Not like me. "I was too busy being miserable. I wasted what I really wanted."

He took a sudden step back. I felt myself suck in a breath and looked up quickly, but he was only going to take the kettle off the burner. I hadn't even noticed the shrieking until then.

"Look, Winry," Edward said as he came back toward me. I felt him put his hands on my upper arms awkwardly. He pinned me under those damn eyes again. "I shouldn't have said what I said."

"It's true though." I watched his eyes again; watching anywhere else felt embarrassing, like I was trying to hide. "Everything you said is true."

He opened his mouth to argue, but I continued.

"Maybe being together, all three of us, maybe that's important. Going back to the way we used to be is a priority." Where did all this clarity come from? "And I thought _I_ was the only one full of regret."

Edward furrowed his brow slightly. "What made you think that?"

I laughed quietly. "I don't know. I guess I forgot that you're just one big ball of remorse. For as much as you used to preach about moving forward," I said, "you're the most paralyzed person I know." He was starting to look angry again. "Next to me, that is."

I didn't know what I had been waiting for. Edward, maybe. For him to remind me that, as painful as regret is, it can be a wonderful incentive. He hadn't grown up at all. He was bigger, yes, but he was still Edward, stretched a little taller, spread a little thinner. He was back now, to let me know, once more, that it's okay to be on the wrong track. Or to be off track entirely. As long as you don't stay there.

There was something waiting on my tongue, wanting to be said. I didn't know why I needed to say it, but I had an inkling that I would know once it was out. "I love you," I said.

Edward's eyes widened a fraction. "Uh… I…"

I started to laugh at myself, at us. "I've felt stunted this whole time, and it's because I'm in love with you, and I know I'm never going to get over it unless I tell you about it!" Edward was getting more embarrassed by the moment, but it didn't bother me.

I felt lighter already. My head was pounding from crying, and I was still covered in snot. But, for the first time since Edward had arrived, I felt like I could breath, like all the coils of rope were lifted off and my center could finally cool. Like deliverance. Or liberation. Or resolution.

Only, I was still in love with Edward; I felt it like you feel a coat you're wearing. Somehow, I was expecting that to go away, too. In fact, I was hoping it would.

"Y-you," Edward began, his cheeks a little red. He obviously didn't know what to say, and it made me feel even better to know I could still stump him. "You want to get over it?" How he went from being so angry and heavy to this was beyond me.

I smiled. "You're not an easy person to love."

He swallowed. "Sorry."

There must have been someone else in the room with us, someone I didn't notice until just then. Someone's hands closed tight around my arms. Someone's hair tickled my nose. Someone breathed against my mouth for a moment and then kissed me. It wasn't Edward. It was my imagination. My imagination tasted a little like apples, more like warmth, but mostly like something entirely individual and alien, and it had to be pheromones or something because I'd been kissed like that before, but I'd never been kissed like that before.

My imagination put a hand on my cheek, brushed a metal thumb over my cheekbone.

Then it was over. I opened my eyes and saw reality. Edward took a couple of unsteady steps away from me, giving me the look he'd been wearing for weeks. Collected and detached like he wanted me to believe that he was. He even, beneath that, looked a little wary of me.

That irked me a little. _He_ had kissed _me_.

He turned and went upstairs, barely making a sound. I would have thought he was being casual if he hadn't been so quiet.

And once he was gone, like I had been leaning on him, I sank into a chair at the kitchen table.

My mouth felt hot and exerted. I still felt damp and fluttery, my nerves vibrating and standing on end. The confusion and uncertainty was beginning to edge in around my conviction, and in the silence Edward left behind, I heard my resolve flicker. My pulse thumped through my lips gently, and I realized that it was going to take a lot more than outing myself to get back up and dust off the love I'd fallen into.


	22. The Alchemologist II

A/N: We are drawing close to the end, but fear not, this is not it. To Kryssa for making me feel like, not a pimp, but the Pimp. Also, beware the funky tense chances; perhaps it will reveal something about the source of this thread.

**  
XXII. The Alchemologist II: **

**Alchemology**

They say that there are whole cultures of people in the far south that won't let you take a photograph of them. They say those people believe that, by taking their picture, you are taking part of them, part of their soul.

It's a scary thing to consider. I mean, I've had my picture taken so many times, all my life. Pinako had albums filled with snapshots of me, all taken before I could even remember. So, does that mean that I've been giving out chunks of my soul all this time? What would that make me now? I don't feel like I'm lacking soul, though what that would feel like, I don't know for certain. I guess running low on soul would be like driving a car running on fumes, and you can _really_ tell when your tank is running low. You can feel it.

But I don't feel anything.

So, I think, sure photographs might take a little bit of you every time, but what if there is no limit? What if – this sounds really crazy, I'm sure – what if we're infinite and we can give and give and give and never run out?

But I don't feel infinite. I don't feel anything.

Or maybe, there's a give and take to it. Every time someone takes my photograph, I do lose a piece of my soul, but what if, every time someone looks at that photograph, takes a second out of his or her busy day to stop and consider me, I get something back? His time and effort has to count for something. Everything counts for something.

I don't feel low. And I don't feel infinite. I feel up and down, like maybe there really is a constant exchange going on, and I've just got to ride the waves until the next time someone stops and remembers me.

Normally, I wouldn't talk about what happened. I'd think about it and lose sleep over it, but, well, I'd been living alone for a really long time, and I guess I was out of the habit of discussing things. Not that I thought telling anyone about what happened next would somehow diminish it, but, on the off chance that sharing what went on later that evening might actually siphon the soul out of the experience, I've got to hope that he's thinking about it, about me.

I heard his door close upstairs, and he must have sucked the air out of the room, because I felt hollow and gradually collapsing in. My heart was beating somewhere in my stomach, and felt the referred pulse all the way through my fingertips. My thoughts were oddly slow and rather simple. In fact, I couldn't really think about anything but that fact that Edward has just kissed me. Well, someone had just kissed me, and it really looked like Edward was the only other person in the room.

It was like a scrolling marquee in my mind. I realized after a moment that I was, in fact, reeling. I almost laughed. Edward hadn't made me _reel_ in years. Really, not since – this made me laugh again in a sort of bitterly ironic and nostalgic way – the first time he kissed me. It was the first time anyone had kissed me, after which I hit him in the arm for taking my first kiss.

I think he was probably just curious what it was like to kiss someone and I was the only girl he knew outside of school. So, I'm sure to him, it only made sense to try it out on me. We were… eight, I think? Maybe seven, I don't recall. I remember Al was still Al – that's a horrible thing to say. Al was still in the flesh; I remember because he fell down and scraped his knee he was laughing so hard.

I whopped Edward hard. He had a bruise that he showed his mother when bargaining for a punishment for me. She, of course, didn't tell Pinako to punish me. In fact, she flicked him on the nose and told him not to kiss a girl without the girl's permission first.

Obviously, he didn't learn his lesson.

My first kiss, I told him, was supposed to be important. He said he didn't get it. I think he was being honest too, because he was a boy, and boys are stupid like that.

I can remember what I was thinking. I was _pissed. _But it wasn't just that my first kiss was taken by my stupid next-door neighbor while splashing in the mud after school and not a knight on a horse with money and chivalry and facial hair. It was that Ed didn't care. It really did not occur to him that you're only supposed to kiss certain people. Kissing is supposed to mean something.

I looked over at the kettle, cooling off the burner. A trickle of steam still rose halfheartedly out of the spout.

Kissing. Kissed. Edward kissed me. What did that mean? Somehow, I doubted his intentions were the same as they were when we were kids. He was just as awkward as he was then. For a kiss, it wasn't very tender or affectionate. Really, this graceless interaction in my kitchen wasn't much. Maybe he was just wondering what it was like to kiss me, like it might have changed since I was eight. His end of the exchange certainly hadn't changed much. Well, I can't imagine little eight-year-old Ed trying to put his tongue in my mouth, but other than that, it was the same.

What was he trying to do, trying to get by kissing me? What was I trying to get? It all started to seem really absurd, this whole mouth-tongue-lip thing that means so much to some of us and absolutely nothing to others.

But I didn't know what it meant to Edward, so I really couldn't make that assumption.

And he was leaving the next morning, bright and early. So, I thought as I watched the last of the steam fade out into the air, if I wanted to know, I would have the find out soon.

There was a creaking overhead. Ed had sat down on his bed. There was more creaking. He had probably just laid down.

I wondered again what Ed was getting at. Then again, how is a person supposed to react on the receiving end of a _really_ misplaced and poorly timed declaration of love? It made me sort of wish that he had laughed at me or something, then I would know for certain that I was crazy and making up our relationship in my head. Now, with my senses _reeling_ over something as simple as kissing, I couldn't tell what was really my imagination and what was Ed pushing back against the wall we'd built up between us.

I was so angry when he kissed me a decade prior. Why couldn't he be some other boy, any other boy? Even… even Al. If Al had kissed me, I wouldn't have been so angry. It just had to be Edward, the one stupid, stupid boy who, even then, I wanted more than anything to like me like I liked him. I didn't want anyone else to kiss me but him, but I would have given anything to make it someone else holding my hand and looking at me funny.

Why couldn't I mean something to him? Ever? Why, in my entire life, did I only want the one person who I knew, _for a fact,_ did not want me back?

But then… why was he kissing me?

So many questions. And only one night to find the answers.

When I next looked up, I could see the horizon painted with gloaming through the kitchen window. The day had come to the point where turning on the lights would make things easier, but was not yet entirely necessary. So, with what was left of the daylight, I got up from my chair and headed toward the stairs. I made my way upstairs slowly. I didn't even thinking about skipping over the one step that creaked.

On the landing, I should have taken a right. I should have walked passed Pinako's old room, down the hall, and into my bedroom, where I should have changed into my pajamas, set my alarm so I could send Edward off, and gone to bed.

When I realized that I wasn't headed toward my bedroom, I was already standing outside Edward's door, wondering just how much he'd be willing to disclose in one night. Just how many answers could I pry out of him?

And I knew, before even knocking on the door that, even if it was as meaningless and experimental as that first, dumb kiss, that I was going to… going to… bargain with him. I was going to see if I couldn't give him a reason to stay.

I knocked and waited. If that wasn't the story of my life with Ed, I don't know what was.

I knocked again. From within, the bed creaked eventually, and two mismatched footfalls shuffled toward the door.

He opened the door about shoulder width and looked at me blankly. "Yeah?" he asked.

The moonlight spilled through the window into his room behind him. I thought detachedly that, if we weren't us, this might be romantic.

"Can I come in?" I asked.

He watched me motionlessly. His eyes stayed at my eyes, everything about him entirely still, and I could tell he was sifting through all the possible outcomes of my request.

I wanted to ask again, but I didn't. I told myself I wanted an answer, a definite, sure answer, and him closing the door in my face would be indicative enough.

It felt like we stood there staring at each other for five minutes before Edward pushed the door open wide enough for me to come in. He stayed leaning on the doorframe until I was inside, then he closed the door and turned to look at me.

Now my heart was fluttering in my throat. The blood pounded in my ears and just looking at him, knowing that it was nighttime and there was a bed behind me was making my knees shake.

"Well, what?" he asked, in his classic, aloof style.

That could have been an answer for me. Right there. Just that. But it wasn't the answer I wanted, and by that point, I was invested. My feet took me a step closer to him, and my mouth asked, "Do you already know what or do you really want me to answer?"

He swallowed. And I remembered him blushing and bumbling when I caught him staring at me earlier. This was still Edward, I told myself.

"What?" he asked again. "I've got to get up early tomorrow."

His voice cracked a little. I felt myself step closer. Ed moved back until he hit the door.

The look on his face – nothing like the look of curious determination he had when he first kissed me way back when– told me something I had not accounted for: Edward might not have an answer. I might be able to get the response I wanted depending on what I did.

And I knew what answer I wanted.

He clearly was not expecting me to… do what I did. I don't think I was expecting me to either. My hand found its way to his hand, and together they eventually make their way to my right breast.

I could see the moonlight reflecting off the whites of Edward's eyes.

"You've got time for this, don't you?" I asked, leaning closer.

He swallowed again and nodded.

Why is that, when you're kissing someone, it becomes your everything? It stops your world on its axis, and everything you are suddenly becomes a warm, wet medley of intimacy and starvation. Then, when you think about it later, it's just kissing. That mouth-tongue-lip thing.

We could have been a science experiment, a specimen of two really uncertain, terrified animals stumbling upon each other when they were actually looking for something else entirely.

I wish I could remember every detail. I want to recall every inch of skin, every breath, every word. I wish I could remember every painfully sweet, exquisite touch and fumble, but I can't. I remember it hurting. And I remember Edward not noticing that I was hurt until I hit him in the chest and told him to stop. And that should have bothered me, but it didn't.

I had my eyes squeezed shut, waiting for it to pass. I felt ripped open and impaled and angry because there was precious little time and I was wasting it. Tears even started to well in my eyes. Edward shifted his weight, and I had to grit my teeth.

Then, against everything I expected him to do, I felt a hand on my face. The back of somebody's flesh fingers brushed my cheek.

"Are you okay?" he asked. "Is there any… uh… should I…"

And with my eyes still closed, I started to laugh. I put my hand over his when he began to draw away.

"What's so funny?" he snapped.

When I looked at him, he was frowning so thoroughly, so childishly that I laughed again. He pulled his hand out of mine and put his knuckles into the mattress, leaning all his weight on his elbow by my shoulder.

"I'm glad you find this entertaining," he grumbled. "When I pictured this—uh," his cheeks turned bright red. "I mean, when I'd consider it—that is, the few times I—"

That was the sweetest thing I'd ever heard, but I wasn't very interested. The pain, by then, had subsided. Mostly, that pout, mouth contorted and brow furrowed, looked so much like the Edward I remembered. Right then, he didn't look like a young version of his father or an old version of himself. He looked like Ed. My Ed. The Ed I wanted him to be. I grabbed his face and kissed him so fiercely that he couldn't fight.

And even if the judges were biased, even if I had tilted the scale in my favor, this was the answer I wanted. This was not Edward having sex with me because he was curious what it was like and I was convenient at the time. This was mutual. This was me and the man I loved, naked at the stars, having the most honest, searching conversation we'd ever had. And Edward held on to me so tightly, said my name so adoringly.

I'd have given him anything then. I'd have given him a hundred first kisses in the mud, a thousand virginities. I'd put up with him breaking my automail; I'd overlook all the idiosyncrasies. Every word he spoke, every breath across my neck was another trespass forgiven, another bygone gone by.

Long nights spent sleepless and worn thin were nothing.

All the tears shed for pains and processes out of my control were finally just tears.

The miles of distance accumulated between the two of us were crossed.

All the edges and hems of me he had frayed seemed to heal.

Being a second priority for so long no longer ached.

All the history of him pushing too far and me hitting too hard melted away, and for the time, we just were. Blissfully, we were.

And then it was over. I was expecting fireworks and epiphanies, but there was just Edward gasping against my shoulder for a moment, and then his weight lifted. The mattress sank to my right as he rolled off me. The darkened ceiling filled my vision and the rest of me felt rather empty.

"Edward," I began.

I wondered if he felt a little guilty. I had heard my end of the deal was important to some men. "What?" Edward replied.

Clearly, he wasn't one of those men.

I decided not to care. Instead, I reached over and wrapped myself as tightly as I could around him. "I doubt I'll ever understand you," I said as I rested my temple against his sternum.

He snorted. "Be grateful."

"You weren't always like this, you know."

"Like what?"

I sat up a little and frowned at him. "Cold and indifferent."

"What?" He pushed himself up on his elbows. "Did I imagine it or did we just sleep together?"

He didn't get it. I swatted his side. "No. Shut up. I don't want to argue now."

Edward lay back down and folded his arms over his chest. "Fine. You're the one who brought it up."

I untied his arms and took up my previous position. "I know. Just shut up." Once we were both settled down, I added, "I think it's the alchemy."

He sighed. "What is?"

"Are all alchemists like you?"

I looked up at his face, which he turned away from me. I watched his eyes searching for something outside the window. After a hesitation, he replied softly. "Yep."

"Every last one of you?" I asked. Edward sighed again and I brought my hands up to the rest on his chest. I then put my chin on my wrists and waited for his answer.

"Every last one of us."

I laughed quietly. "Someone should study you. Alchemists, I mean. They should open up a lab just for studying alchemists. Maybe they could figure out what on earth is wrong with you all."

That made Edward smile. "I'll give 'em your name in Central. You'll be the first alchemologist."

"Me?" I asked. "Why?"

He looked at me. "You should be a pro."

I felt myself blush. "I've been studying one for years."

We both got quiet after that. I watched his eyes and he watched mine, and it wasn't awkward just to be quiet with him. I sighed and put my ear to his chest. His pulse was quiet and easy and hypnotic. I felt my eyelids slide closed, and without the distraction of the darkened room around us, I was swallowed up by the sound of his breath and heartbeat.

Inside his chest, I heard his breathing change, and I knew he was getting ready to say something.

"Look, Winry," he said.

"I don't want to look."

He was going to tell me that he was leaving anyway, that he had the ticket and he had the plans and that he couldn't interrupt them for me.

"I'm sorry," he said and put his hand on my shoulder.

And somehow, that made it all okay.

"Just," I started put paused. "Just wake me up before you leave, all right?"

"Okay."

In the nineteen, almost twenty years that I had known Edward, from the time that he ripped the heads off all my dolls, to the time I beat the snot out of him in summer camp, or the time he piggy-backed me to my house when I sprained my ankle, to the time he showed up on my doorstep, missing two limbs and one brother, or even the time he made every day of my life a little fuller and a little more painful, I had never been happier or more heartbroken at the same time.


	23. The Alchemologist III

A/N: It has been a pleasure, readers. I have found that my most well-received pieces, both fanfic and original, are ones that are the searching, sometimes painful inventories of myself. This one is certainly no different. And that is why I say thanks to all you readers and reviewers for taking part in what has turned out to be one big, fat catharsis for me. You've ridden it out full circle, which is, if not a testament to your patience and tolerance, so remarkably flattering I can't even tell you.

**XXIII. The Alchemologist III**

The truth is, you can't study alchemists. It's impossible. That's like trying to study air or a smell or an idea. They never stay still long enough for you to get a good look, to even get close enough to look. Not that there's much to look at. There's a man, a skill, and a quest. And that's it. There's no science to it. Maybe, if you could separate the parts out, then you could just look at the man or learn the skill or map out the quest. But you can't. Without one part of the triad, the other two would die. And that's why I now understand that there never was a chance for Edward and me, that it was naïve of me to think that there was.

Alchemists are all insane, driven and heartless, but right to be so because they can change things in ways that other people can't. They have a responsibility to use their skills as best they can, but they treat it like it's their entire life, like they don't have time for friends or love or themselves. There's just a man, a skill, and a quest.

Sometimes, I think, what if I could perform alchemy? Would I be blind and crazy? And I think that I would be. I wouldn't be able to sleep at night unless I was in service, unless I was using myself – as in me, the skill, and the drive – to make something right.

But I can't really understand. I mean, I have an important job, right? I give people their lives back. That's what automail is: an extension of the person, the piece that they lost somewhere along the way, and without it, they are not complete. So, should I be up at night, worrying whether I'd blessed enough people with my skills that day or not? No, I don't think I should.

Really, what I do isn't that different from alchemy. I save lives, don't I? So why am I not just a shell filled with charisma and drive, staring down a narrow tunnel at a pinprick of light that I will never ever reach? Why am I not like an alchemist?

I can only think of one reason, the one mystery variable that I'm missing. It's got to be the alchemy.

Sometimes I wonder how things would have played out if they had been different. Would I have been able to wave Edward off with just some tears and some time and then move on, knowing _now_ things would be different? _Now _I wouldn't have to worry because we'd shared something truly important, perhaps important enough to stand in the ranks with brotherhood. Lovers. That's what we were, and _now _he knew how I felt, and _now_ I knew, too. And he'd call, and he'd visit. And we'd be happy, and life wouldn't be one traumatic amputation after another. Maybe I'd move with him to Central, and we'd buy a house in the suburbs and host parties and everyone would stop and marvel and wonder just how we got to be so damn perfect. And I would tell them that it's because we have history.

I think I thought our fate was already written somewhere. Like, just because we grew up together, stealing books and toys and all kinds of firsts from one another, we were meant to be. I mean, we had to be. I'd never loved a boy like I loved him. We just _had_ to be. I suppose that's why, when I woke up with the sun in my eyes and no one in my bed, I was _hell bent_ on making sure that those goddamn stars got what they wanted when it written in them that Edward and I were destined for each other.

It was 7:45. His train left at eight. It would take a lot longer than what I had to get into town and throw myself in front of the train. But really, the fear of not being able to succeed at this massive impossibility I'd taken upon myself didn't bother me that much. All I could think about as I threw on my clothes from the night before, my coat, and my boots, was that Edward had gotten up and turned off his alarm after I fell asleep. That son of a bitch had no intention of waking me up before he left.

He had lied to be me. To my face. _ To my face._ That son of a bitch. That big, fat coward.

A carriage was trundling away in the distance toward town, and I leapt over the stairs leading from my porch to the ground, landed in the dry dirt with a cloud of dust, and took off sprinting toward that carriage, all the while thinking in time with the beat of my footfalls.

_That son of a bitch. The big, fat coward._

I wouldn't have caught the cart if a piece of luggage hadn't fallen off the back. Up ahead of me, the driver pulled the cart over to the side of the road and began strapping the suitcase back on. It didn't actually occur to me until later that I should had hidden myself until the carriage was moving again. The driver probably didn't like the idea of me picking up a free ride, but he didn't seem to notice me beating down the road nor did he hear me grab onto the luggage rack on the back of the carriage. I managed a pretty precarious foothold on the cover over the right wheel, clung to the rack, and tried to stay hunkered down.

If the driver or the passengers didn't try to shake me, physics certainly did. We were going fast enough that a fall from the back would have beaten me up, and I could only guess that it must have been those stars that kept me on the carriage for as long as I was.

By the time we pulled up into town, I knew fifteen minutes had passed, but on the off chance that the train was delayed, I decided to continue. The carriage took a rather sharp right turn down a road I didn't need to take, and the dismount I was planning on making never happened. Instead, I was thrown off the back of the cart, my foot having slipped off the wheel cover. I hit the ground hard and barrel rolled twice in the dirt before ending face up, spread eagle in the middle of the road.

I had a bruised rib. I could tell that much when I leapt back up to my feet and began running toward the train station.

_That son of a bitch. That big, fat coward._

The afternoon storms hadn't rolled in yet, so there were lots of people to maneuver around. I finally gave up on the sidewalk and started running in the street, just within the gutter.

In the middle of town, the clock tower was pounding out eight o'clock, but I was still pounding down the road, my feet slipping and sliding inside my galoshes.

When I took the turn into the train station parking lot, I fell again, scraping my knee and palms before jumping back up. It occurred to me, once I was on the first platform, that I didn't know what train Edward was taking. I didn't have time to check the posted schedule, so I started frantically scanning the crowd, all the while wiping my bleeding hands on my pants.

It must have been Blonde Ponytail and Brown Coat Day at the train station because I accusingly ran up to a stranger at least twice, and while that was embarrassing, it reminded me that this was not the kind of crowd the station would have if the train had just left. Judging by the impatient looks some people had, I guessed Ed's train had been delayed, and that meant the little bastard was standing around somewhere, just waiting to be clobbered.

On the tracks at platform one, a hulking engine smoked, looking ready to leave at any moment, but attendants stood at all the doorways, barring entry. Just as I was reaching the middle of the platform, they began letting people on the train, and I started to panic. I had already gotten some warning looks from the attendants, so chances were they weren't going to let me on the train if I asked to look for someone. That meant I had to pick Ed out of the crowd right then, or I'd have to wait until his next visit to punch his face in. And, from the looks of things, Ed probably wasn't going to visit again any time soon.

The crowd was getting thin. The remaining passengers were the ones who were clearly in no hurry, waiting for the bulk of the crowd to board the train so they wouldn't have to push through the line like cattle. It I knew Edward, he was at the front of the line, pushing away.

I could feel myself losing steam as I approached the end of the platform. Edward was probably already on the train, probably already dozing away in his seat, probably already willfully ignoring any thought that might involve me. That son of a bitch. That big, fat coward.

I stopped, toeing the end of the platform. My heart, which had been racing back and forth between my throat and my stomach, started to ache as it slowed and eventually took up normalcy behind my sternum. I had that sort of sick, empty feeling you get when you have all this adrenaline in you and you're all revved up for fight or flight, and you somehow end up with neither. You end up waiting. You end up staring at the pathetic blades of grass pushing up between the wooden slats of the floor, listening to your breath and your thoughts. _That son of a bitch. That big, fat coward. _

So, I thought, the stars were wrong. They wasted their time giving me fifteen minutes to get to the station. They wasted their efforts stopping the carriage and getting me on it. They abused their talents by delaying the train for me. But mostly, they wasted a really big fucking chunk of my life, convincing me that history meant something, that time and effort and talents could get me what I wanted.

"You can't get anything without first giving something in return," I murmured to myself. While it seemed viable in theory, it was bullshit in practice. "That son of a bitch," I muttered. "Big, fat coward."

"Kind of pathetic," a voice said to my left. I spun around to find the big, fat coward himself looking up at the train with a blank face and his hands in his pockets. "Equivalent exchange," he said and laughed. "Just some loser's way to convince himself he's got a fat reward coming. Like he's owed something."

I meant to agree with him. Instead, I hit him.

Edward stumbled back, holding the lip that I had just split.

"Some of us actually _are_ owed something," I spat.

He looked down at his red-stained glove and then back up at me. "Nobody's owed anything," he said, far more calmly than I would have expected. "And you can wait for the mystery prize, but it's not happening."

That made me so angry. He was trying to be philosophical and metaphorical, and I just wanted to know why he would fuck me and run. "My prize isn't a mystery," I snapped, planting myself directly in front of him. "In fact, it's not even a prize. I don't think I won anything."

He furrowed his brow. "Then why are you here?"

"Because," I said, matter-of-factly, "While I don't think you're obligated to say goodbye, I want to know why you didn't." I thought that was clear enough. "I asked you, Ed. And you said you'd wake me up. Is it really that difficult?"

"You make goodbyes a real nightmare, you know that?" he asked, started to get defensive.

"It's amazing, isn't it?" I said sarcastically. "I should be _really_ good at it by now!"

He rolled his eyes and started to walk around me toward the entrance to the train. I moved in front of him, and when he tried to side step me again, I snatched up the front of his shirt and pulled him down until he was eye to eye with me.

"Why?" I snapped. "You coward, why didn't you wake me up? How were planning on making it up to me next time you needed a tune-up?" I almost told him how disappointing he was last night, how I might trade my forgiveness for my virginity back so I could give it up the right way, but that wasn't a low enough blow. Plus, it wasn't the blow I wanted. I wanted him to know, all physical affection aside, that he _did_ owe me something, that even if equivalent exchange is a load, some things are just unfair.

He watched the train instead of watching my face. "I get really sick of watching you cry," he muttered.

"Oh really?" I asked. I thought that was hysterical. "That's funny, because I really only spend time crying when you're around."

"That's not fair!" he barked. "You can't blame me because you're a—"

"You wanna talk fair!" People were starting to stare, so I lowered my voice. "Not waking me up to say goodbye when I asked you to, when you said you would," I hissed, "That's not fair."

"'Cause I knew you'd be like this," Edward hissed back. "Why can't you just hit me with a wrench and get over it like you used to?"

I gestured to his busted lip. "Well, I tried and it didn't make me feel any better."

"Then find your own way to comfort yourself because I have a train to catch," Edward said with finality. He pulled my hands off the front of his shirt and stepped around me.

I wanted to hit him again. I wanted to point and yell all the terrible, humiliating things about him I could think of. I wanted to dredge up old wounds. I wanted to hit below the belt and fight dirty. I wanted to insult his mother and tell him his dad left because of him and remind him of little Elysia, forever fatherless, and blame him for Alphonse. For poor, sweet, pitiful Alphonse, who was constitutionally incapable of hurting anyone yet still got the worst deal of all of us.

I burst into tears, which was the last thing I wanted to do.

"Who do you think you are?" I asked while he was still close enough to hear. "What makes you think it's okay to do this to people?"

He stood on the bottom step in the entrance to the train. He turned and looked at me with this stupid, unimpressed face like he couldn't understand what had gotten me so upset and he was only marginally interested in finding out what it was.

Edward let out a long sigh that ended ruefully with my name. He allowed his shoulders to slump.

I thought about running up and throwing my arms around him until I realized that I didn't really want to hug him. I didn't want to kiss him or sleep with him again. I didn't even want to hit him. I just wanted to know if I were anything to him, and I had this terrible feeling that my whole existence was contingent on his answer, like if I weren't anything to him then I wasn't anything at all. And then I could just evaporate into the overcast sky.

Poof. I'd be gone.

He watched me for so long I felt my tears drying in itchy trails on my face. He sighed again and said, "I'm sorry," in that sort of take-one-for-the-team way. Then he turned and boarded. I watched him through the windows as he walked down the aisle and took a seat on the opposite side of the car. Shortly after, the conductor blew the whistle, the air filled with smoke and deafening noise. We stragglers were instructed to stand back, and the train groaned to life.

And there I was, watching the ass-end of a train like it was my profession.

I remembered what I would sometimes do when I was a kid. I'm sure the attendants at the station thought I was a whack-job, but I'd sometimes walk down to the stationed with my lunch and park at a bench. I'd watched people reunited, unabashedly affectionate in public, and pretend that I'd be one of them. I'd imagine that everyone there was watching that cute little girl in her cute little sundress who was so obviously waiting to be met. The few people who actually did notice me smiled like they knew how I felt, how excited I was to meet up with some old friend. I smile back like I was exactly what they thought.

Then, when the station would get empty, I'd pack up my things and walk back home, pretending to all the people who passed in cars or carriages that I had just sent of an old friend after a day of fun in the sun. Not that anyone ever stopped and asked or even looked twice at me, but for the moment that we shared the same stretch of road, I wanted them to see a cheerful, satisfied girl who was so full up of love and sunshine that she couldn't help but smile like a fucking idiot. I wanted to be a girl who wasn't humiliated and ashamed of herself for waiting all day for nothing, pretending that she had something she had lost, that she might have only had in her imagination.

And it probably was my imagination. All of it. I'd wake up tomorrow morning, eight years old, housing the loves of my life, blissfully ignorant of the fact that, ultimately, the only thing worth loving, the only think I_ know _is going to be there when I wake up every morning is myself. At eight, I didn't know that everyone and everything is never what it seems and that no amount of my love and adoration is going to make the people I cherish more than life itself anything more than human. I can be-pedestal them as high as I want. That won't make them rise above their own flaws.

And Edward was perfect in every way. He really was. He really is. Even as I'm writing this really long, pretty sad recollection right now in my flat in Central. Without all that anger, all that focused desperation, he wouldn't be Edward. I'd like to think that he loved me. I'd like even more to think that he loves me now, even thought it's been almost a year. I think he does, as much as Edward is capable of love, as much as any alchemist is capable of love. The closest they get, that we get to being loved by them, is when some unsuspecting mundane like me stumbles in front of the light at the end of their tunnel. And right there for a minute, all he saw was my silhouette sprawled across his dreams, and for that moment, it must have looked like I could fit. Not that I possibly could. It was just the shadow of me, superimposed over a reflection of all his insecurities and shortcomings – no pun intended.

I wish there were a science to it. I might then be able to identify and categorize the behaviors. If there were a distinct cause and effect, it might hurt less. Or maybe I'm just thinking the grass is greener on the other side. Maybe it would just as hard knowing that the only reason Edward stuck around as long as he did was some chemical reaction or diagnosis and not the undeniable magnetism of my charm. (I hope you're laughing, because that one was intended.)

I think, in the end, there is no logic. Alchemology was Edward's version of a sweet nothing. What a geek. Woo me with your brains, Ed. That's just like him, too. Such an immature, stupid, inconsiderate – and probably everything I'd ever want in a man – little boy. A boy with a skill and a dream and that's it. That's all he'll ever be.

But not me. I can be lots of things. I figured that out as the train was fading out along the horizon. I realized that sitting at the station, pretending I'm being met, really is embarrassing and unspeakably painful. And I started to wonder, why on earth would I pick that over just going home, just accepting that Edward was leaving and might not be coming back? I turned and looked at the train attendant who had probably seen so many girls just like me he couldn't count them. And suddenly, sitting on that bench with my lunch didn't sound shameful or stupid. It sounded sad. Not pathetic, but sad. It sounded heartbreaking that a girl would do that to herself.

One more glance in the direction of Edward's clumsy, graceless exit, and I knew that I didn't have to do that to myself anymore. No more reaching with fingers just short enough that I couldn't grasp. Not more wondering, maybe if I do this, I'll be good enough, or maybe if I do that, I'll be attractive enough. No more trying to study air. All Edward may be is an alchemist – a man, a skill, and a drive – but I'm more.

I smiled at the attendant, who was now beginning to give me strange looks. He could be thinking anything of me. In fact, he probably recognized me as the girl who would waste hours away, warming a bench for nothing. He probably recognized me as the Alchemologist. And that was okay. Because, well, maybe I still was, to one degree or another. I knew that, should Edward show up on my doorstep, I'd still drop what I was doing and love him as hard and as futilely as always. Even now. But there was so much life left even after you subtracted out the time wasted bitter and miserable. And when I caught myself smiling at the drivers as they slowed and offered me rides – it looked like it was about to rain – it was because I didn't need a ride. I could walk just fine.


End file.
